THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LEA    &    BLANCHARD, 
PHILADELPHIA, 

Have  Recently  Published 

A  SECOND  EDITION 

OP 

THE  BIOGRAPHY  AND  POETICAL  REMAINS 

OF  THE  LATE 

MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON, 

In  One  Volume,  handsomely  bound  in  embossed  cloth. 

"  It  is  full  of  melancholy  interest.  We  see  a  brain  of  preter 
natural  and  precocious  activity  embraced  in  a  frame  of  extreme 
delicacy  and  susceptibility,  and  that  the  latter  must  very  soon  wear 
out  is  obvious  from  the  beginning  to  an  observing  eye.  *  *  * 
Gentleness,  tenderness,  and  depth  of  feeling,  religious  sensibility, 
moral  purity  and  the  beautiful  impulses  of  genius." 

"  Have  the  annals  of  recorded  genius  anything  to  show  more 
remarkable  than  tins'?" — North  American  Review. 

"  The  reading  world  (says  Mr.  Irving)  has  long  set  a  cherish 
ing  value  on  the  name  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  a  lovely  American 
girl,  who,  after  giving  early  promise  of  rare  poetical  talent,  was 
snatched  from  existence  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age.  The 
subject  of  the  Biography  is  deeply  interesting,  and  no  one  can 
read  it  without  a  sentiment  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Irving,  and  a  feel 
ing  of  sorrow  that  one  so  lovely  as  the  subject  of  it  should  so  early 
1  sparkle,'  be  exhaled  and  sent  to  heaven." — Boston  Courier. 

"  The  volume  here  presented  is  very  attractive.  The  Biogra 
phy  by  Irving  derives  a  great  interest  from  the  affectionate  dignity 
with  which  a  mother,  not  unworthy  of  such  daughters,  seems  to 
have,  preserved  the  record  of  the  development  of  the  powers  of 
mind,  and  graces  of  character,  of  her  gifted  and  fated  child; 
while  the  prose  and  poetical  remains  attest  the  taste  and  talent 
which  a  premature  grave  snatched  from  the  world." — New  York 
American. 

"  The  particulars  of  Margaret's  career,  which  have  been  ob 
tained  by  Mr.  Irving  principally  from  her  mother  and  family,  and 
are  recorded  in  his  usual  fascinating  style,  will  be  found  of  intense 
and  melancholy  interest;  her  poetical  efforts  from  the  age  of  eight 
years,  till  her  early  death  at  fifteen,  display  an  activity  of  intellect 
truly  remarkable,  and  which  will  too  readily  account  for  her  pre 
mature  decease.  This  work  cannot  fail  to  find  high  favour  with 
the  public." — Pennsylvanian. 


LEA  &  BLANCHARD  beg  to  inform  the  public 
that  they  have  at  press 

SOUVENIRS    OF   OTHER   DAYS; 
Written  by  a  distinguished  Lady  of  Virginia. 

This  work  will  be  brought  out  in  a  style  of  great  beautj,  and  form 
•  volume  suitable  to  the  intelligent  and  refined  taste  of  the  country. 

ALSO, 

THE   PORCELAIN   TOWER, 

OR 

NINE  STORIES  OF  CHINA. 

Compiled  from  Original  Sources 
BY  "T.  T.  T." 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS. 
In  One  Volume. 

S  T  U  R  M  E  Rr 

A   TALE   OF  MESMERISM,   &c. 

By  ISABELLA  F.  ROMER. 

In  Two  Volumes. 

RICHARD  SAVAGE, 

A    ROMANCE    OP    REAL    LIFE, 
With  Illustrations  by  Cruikshank. 

FRANK    HEARTWELL, 

OR 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO; 
With  Illustrations  by  Cruikshank. 

STANLEY    THORN, 

By  the  author  of  "VALENTINE  Vox"  and  «ST.  GEORGE  JULIAN-" 
With  Illustrations  by  Cruikshank. 

THE  HOME  OF  SHAKSPEARE; 
By  the  author  of  "  SHAKSPEARE  AND  HIS  FRIENDS." 


THE  LONDON  FRIENDSHIP'S  OFFERING 

FOR  1842. 
EDITED  BY  LEITCH  RITCHIE,  Esa. 

The  new  volume  of  this  favourite  annual  is  in  preparation 
under  the  superintendence  of  the  author  of  the  first  nine  volumes 
of  the  "  Picturesque  Annual"  on  a  scale  of  unusual  splendour. 

Among  the  authors  engaged  are  the  following:  Mrs.  Abdy, 
W.  Harrison  Ainsworth,  Countess  of  Blessington,  D.  J.  Bour- 
cault  (Author  of  "  London  Assurance")  Mrs.  Bray,  Miss  Mary 
Anne  Browne,  Barry  Cornwall,  R.  H.  Home,  Hon.  Mrs. 
Lambert,  Charles  Lewis  (Author  of  the  "  Career  of  Woman"), 
Miss  Moss  (Author  of  the  "  Romance  of  Jewish  History"),  Hon. 
Mrs.  Erskine  Norton,  Miss  Power,  Thomas  Roscoe,  J.  R.  Aris, 
Charles  Richardson,  Leitch  Ritchie,  Miss  Savage,  Miss  Camilla 
Toulmin,  Mrs.  Walker,  Forbes  Winslow,  Lady  Emmeline 
Stuart  Wortley,  Lady  Wyatt,  &c.  &c. 

The  engravings  are  finished  with  unusual  care;  and  a  more 
attractive  volume,  as  regards  external  appearance,  Literature, 
Art,  and  Fashion,  has  rarely  if  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic. 

It  will  be  bound  in  solid  though  richly  ornamented  leather. 


HEATH'S    BOOK   OF    BEAUTY 
For  1842. 

Edited  by  the  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON. 
With  numerous  exquisite  Engravings  by  the  most  eminent  artists. 

This  work  will  be  bound  in  superb  style,  with  gilt  edges,  to 
match  the  volumes  of  former  years. 


POETICAL  REMAINS 


OF  THE  LATE 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON, 


COLLECTED    AND    ARRANGED 


BY  HER  MOTHER: 


WITH    A    BIOGRAPHY, 


BY 


MISS  SEDGWICK. 


"  Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy, 

Paused  o'er  her  couch  awhile ; 

She  gave  a  tear  for  those  she  loved, 

Then  met  him  with  a  smile." 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LEA    AND    BLANCHARD. 
1841. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841, 

BY  LEA  &  BLANCHARD, 

In  the  office  of  the  clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


T.  K.  fc  P.  G.  COLLINS,  Printers. 


DEDICATION    ------  ix 

BIOGRAPHY  - 

POETICAL  REMAINS                  -            -            -            -  91 

Address  to  my  Muse               -  95 

Amir  Khan                                            -  97 

Chicomico                   .....  121 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES           -            -            -            -  153 

Charity                         ....  155 

To  Science                  -            -            -            -            -  156 

Pleasure          ------  156 

The  Good  Shepherd                -                         -  157 

Lines,  written  under  the  promise  of  Reward               -  158 

To  the  Memory  of  H.  K.  White         -            -  159 

Stilling  the  Waves      -            -            -            -            -  159 

A  Song,  in  imitation  of  the  Scotch     -            -            -  160 

Exit  from  Egyptian  Bondage              ...  161 

Last  Flower  of  the  Garden     -            -            -            -  163 

Ode  to  Fancy              -  164 

The  Blush                   -  165 

On  an  ^Eolian  Harp                ....  167 

The  Coquette                           -                         -            -  168 

Death  of  an  Infant      -                                      -  169 

Reflections  on  crossing  Lake  Champlain        -            -  171 

The  Star  of  Liberty                                         -            -  172 

The  Mermaid              -                                                 -  173 

On  Solitude 174 


CONTENTS. 
VI 

1  *7fi 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Sister  j?? 

A  Dream        •  179 

To  my  Sister  lgo 

Cupid's  Bower  Ig2 

The  Family  Time-Piece 

On  the  Execution  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 

The  Destruction  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah 

Ruth's  answer  to  Naomi 

David  and  Jonathan 

The  Sick  Bed  •  |^ 

Death 

To  my  Mother 

Sabrina,  a  Volcanic  Island,  which  appeared  and  >       m  193 

disappeared  among  the  Azores,  in  1811  } 

The  Prophecy 
Prophecy  II. 
Prophecy  III.      - 
Byron 

Feats  of  Death 
Auction  Extraordinary 
The  Bachelor 
The  Guardian  Angel 

On  the  Crew  of  a  Vessel  who  were  found  Dead  at  Sea          205 
Woman's  Love  ....  207 

To  a  Lady,  whose  singing  resembled  >  2^g 

that  of  an  absent  Sister  $ 

To  my  Friend  and  Patron,  M K ,  Esq.  209 

On  seeing  a  Picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary,    >  on 

painted  several  centuries  since  5 

American  Poetry        -  -  -  -  214 

Headache       -  215 

To  a  Star   .    -  216 

Song  of  Victory  for  the  Death  of  Goliath       -  217 

The  Indian  Chief  and  Conconay        ...  218 

The  Mother's  Lament  for  her  Infant  221 

On  the  Motto  of  a  Seal  223 


CONTENTS.  Vii 

Morning          ....         />  ;;f.   /  &  II  224 

Shakspeare     ......  225 

To  a  Friend  -        •••:>';.;:  226 

The  Fear  of  Madness  -  227 

Maritorne,  or  the  Pirate  of  Mexico     -  -  -  228 

America          ......  238 

Lines  addressed  to  a  Cousin  ...  240 

Modesty          ......  241 

A  View  of  Death       -  -       ^*»KK        -  242 

Rob  Roy's  reply  to  Francis  Osbaldistone       -  -  243 

To  a  Lady  recovering  from  Sickness  -  -  244 

The  Vision  -  -  245 

On  seeing,  at  a  Concert,  the  public  > 

performance  of  a  Female  Dwarf      $ 

On  seeing  a  young  Lady  at  her  Devotions     -  -  249 

Alonzo  and  Imanel     -  -        ;•  a  •'    •  V,  >        *-;v  251 

To  Margaret's  Eye     -  253 

To  a  young  Lady,  whose  Mother  was  }  __  . 

Insane  from  her  Birth  $ 

Song,  tune  Mrs.  Robinson's  Farewell  -  -  256 

Song 257 

Twilight  258 

Fragment        -  259 

On  the  Death  of  Queen  Caroline        -  260 

On  the  Death  of  the  beautiful  Mrs. -  261 

The  White  Maid  of  the  Rock  262 

The  Wee  Flower  of  the  Heather  264 

To  my  Dear  Mother  in  Sickness        -  -  -  265 

An  Acrostic  (Moon,  Sun)       ....  266 

Habakkuk  3d,  6th  267 

On  reading  a  fragment  called  the  Flower  of  the  Forest  268 

Zante  -  269 

The  Yellow  Fever     -  271 

Kindar  Burial  Service, — Versified      ...  273 

The  Grave      -  274 

Ruins  of  Palmyra       .....  275 

The  Wide  World  is  Drear     ....  276 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Farewell  to  Miss  E.  B.  277 

The  Army  of  Israel  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Sinai  278 

Garden  of  Gethsemane  ....  280 

The  Tempest  God      -  281 

To  a  Departing  Friend  282 

The  Parting  of  De  Courcy  and  Wilhelmine  283 

Love,  Joy,  and  Pleasure,  an  allegory  -  288 

My  Last  Farewell  to  my  Harp  ...  292 

SPCCIMENS  OF  PROSE  COMPOSITION     ...  293 

Columbus       -  ....  295 

Alphonso  in  Search  of  Learning         ...  298 

Sensibility      -  -  304 

The  Holy  Writings  :..,  .  305 

Charity  V          _  -  307 

Remarks  on  the  Immorality  of  the  Stage        -  -  309 

Contemplation  of  the  Heavens  -  -  .  ;;ti 


DEDICATION. 


TO  WASHINGTON  IRVING,  ESQUIRE. 

DEAR  SIR: — 

SINCE  the  publication  of  my  daughter  Margaret's 
Poems,  I  have  been  solicited  to  revive  the  writings  of 
my  lamented  Lucretia.  The  public  has  manifested  so 
much  interest,  and  expressed  such  unqualified  admi 
ration  of  their  merits,  and  so  much  forbearance  in 
criticising  the  errors  of  these  juvenile  productions, 
that  I  feel  myself,  in  a  measure,  bound  to  comply  with 
their  wishes.  As  a  testimony  of  my  grateful  respect, 
will  you  permit  me,  sir,  to  dedicate  this  little  volume 
to  you,  with  the  sincere  and  united  thanks  of  my 
family,  for  the  truly  touching  and  elegant  manner  in 
which  you  have  executed  your  voluntary  task. 

I  am  called  upon  for  a  life  of  my  Lucretia.  Broken 
as  I  am  in  health  and  spirits,  I  am  not  equal  to  the 
effort;  but  the  kindness  of  Miss  Sedgwick,  has  obviated 
that  difficulty,  and  I  am  happy  in  being  able  to  sub 
stitute  the  following  elegantly  written  memoir  from 
the  pen  of  that  highly  gifted  lady,  which  is  incorpo 
rated  in  Sparks's  American  Biography,  for  the  broken, 
and  unconnected  narrative  which  a  grief- worn,  and 
almost  heart-broken  mother  would  have  produced. 

I  have  merely  strength  to  slightly  remark  upon  the 


x  DEDICATION. 

circumstances  under  which  some  few  of  her  poems 
were  written;  and  should  the  imperfect  manner  in 
which  this  little  volume  is  "got  up,"  form  a  painful 
contrast  to  your  elegant  work,  I  trust  an  indulgent 
and  discriminating  community  will  make  every  allow 
ance  for  its  inefficiency.  The  forbearance,  and  even 
approbation  in  some  instances,  manifested  by  Mr. 
Southey,  in  his  Review  of  her  former  publication,  to 
which  Professor  Morse  prefixed  a  brief  sketch  of  her 
life,  leads  me  to  hope,  that  the  same  indulgence  will  be 
granted  to  this  little  tribute  of  maternal  love; — a  feeble 
monument  of  a  mourning  mother  to  the  talents  and 
virtues  of  a  darling  child. 

I  have  felt  much  diffidence  in  presenting  these  manu 
scripts  to  the  public,  in  their  present  imperfect  and 
unfinished  state;  but  the  circumstances  under  which 
many  of  them  were  written,  condemned  and  partly 
destroyed  by  herself,  as  if  unworthy  to  hold  a  place 
among  her  papers,  her  extreme  youth  and  loveliness, 
and  the  melancholy  fact  of  her  dying,  before  she  had 
time  to  complete  others,  will,  I  trust,  make  them  not 
less  interesting  to  the  reader  of  taste  and  feeling. 

The  allegory  of  "  Alphonso  in  search  of  Learning,'7 
was  written  at  the  age  of  eleven.  It  was  suggested  to 
her  infant  mind  by  seeing  a  cupola  erected  upon  the 
Pittsburgh  Academy,  upon  which  was  painted  the 
Temple  of  Science. 

The  poem  of  "Chicomico"  was  written  after  a  severe 
illness,  which  confined  me  many  months  to  my  bed, 
during  which  time  Lucretia  made  a  resolution  that  if 
I  ever  should  recover,  she  would  give  up  her  "  scrib- 


DEDICATION.  xj 

bling,"  as  she  called  it,  and  devote  herself  to  me;  at 
my  earnest  entreaty,  however,  she  resumed  her  pen, 
and  the  first  thing  she  produced  was  Chicomico,  pre 
faced  by  the  following  lines: 

"  I  had  thought  to  have  left  thee,  my  sweet  harp,  for'ever; 
To  have  touched  thy  dear  strings  again — never — oh  never! 
To  have  sprinkled  oblivion's  dark  waters  upon  thee, 
To  have  hung  thee  where  wild  winds  would  hover  around  thee; 
But  the  voice  of  affection  hath  call'd  forth  one  strain, 
Which  when  sung,  I  will  leave  thee  to  silence  again." 

This  beautiful  tribute  of  affection,  has  ever  been 
one  of  the  most  cherished  relics  of  my  child,  and  I 
deeply  regret  that  the  irregular  and  unconnected  state 
of  the  manuscript  obliges  me  to  withhold  the  whole 
of  the  first  part. 

The  ballad  of  "De  Courcy  and  Wilhelmine"  was 
written  for  a  weekly  paper,  which  she  issued  for  the 
amusement  of  the  family.  It  was  dated  from  "  The 
Little  Corner  of  the  World,"  edited  by  the  Story-Tel 
ler,  and  dedicated  to  Mamma.  After  a  time  it  was 
discontinued,  and  to  my  extreme  regret  destroyed. 
The  fragments  inserted  in  the  collection,  is  one  of  the 
very  few  remnants  found  among  her  manuscripts;  the 
first  sixteen  verses  are  purely  original;  the  sequel  was 
supplied  by  a  friend,  it  being  deemed  too  fine  to  be 
rejected  for  want  of  mere  filling  out.  Lucretia's  dif 
fidence,  and  the  apprehension  that  the  circumstances 
might  transpire,  or  the  papers  be  read  by  some  friend 
out  of  the  family,  was,  I  believe,  the  sole  reason  why 
she  discontinued  and  destroyed  them.  This  mutilated 


Xii  DEDICATION. 

paper,  and  a  part  of  Rodin  Hall,  are  all  that  remain 
of  the  "  Story-Teller." 

Her  sweetly  playful  disposition  is  strongly  mani 
fested  in  her  "  Petition  of  the  Old  Comb."  She  had 
retired  to  her  room  with  her  books  and  pen,  where 
she  had  spent  several  days;  feeling  a  desire  to  see  how 
she  was  getting  on,  I  went  to  her  room.  As  I  passed 
through  the  hall,  I  saw  a  sealed  letter  directed  to  me, 
lying  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  I  opened  it,  and  found 
it  contained  the  "  Petition  of  a  Poor  Old  Comb." 

Dear  mistress,  I  am  old  and  poor, 

My  teeth  decayed  and  gone; 
Oh!  give  me  but  one  moment's  rest, 

For  mark,  I'm  tott'ring  down. 

Thy  raven  locks  for  many  a  day, 

I've  bound  around  thy  brow; 
And  now  that  I  am  old  and  lame, 

I  prithee  let  me  go. 

Have  I  not,  many  a  weary  hour, 

Peep'd  o'er  thy  book  or  pen; 
And  seen  what  this  poor  mangled  form 

Will  ne'er  behold  again? 

A  faithful  servant  I  have  been, 

But  ah!  my  day  is  past; 
And  all  my  hope,  and  all  my  wish, 

Is  liberty  at  last. 

Mark  but  the  glittering  well  fill'd  shelf, 

Where  my  companions  lie; 
Are  they  not  fairer  than  myself, 

And  younger  far  than  I? 


DEDICATION.  xiii 

Oh!  then  in  pity  hie  thee  there, 

Where  thousands  wait  thy  call, 
And  twine  one  in  thy  raven  hair, 

To  shroud  my  shameful  fall. 

i 

My  days  are  hast'ning  to  their  close, 

Crack!  crack!  goes  every  tooth; 
A  thousand  pains,  a  thousand  woes, 

Remind  me  of  my  youth. 

Adieu  then— in  distress  I  die — 

My  last  hold  fails  me  now; 
Adieu,  and  may  thy  elf  locks  fly, 

For  ever  'round  thy  brow. 

On  reading  it,  I  went  up  stairs  and  found  her  enve 
loped  in  books  and  manuscripts.  Several  large  folios 
lay  open  on  the  table,  to  which  she  seemed  to  have 
been  referring;  while  books,  papers  and  scraps  of  poetry 
were  strewn  in  confusion  over  the  carpet.  Her  lux 
uriant  hair  had  escaped  from  its  confinement,  and  hung 
in  rich  glossy  curls  upon  her  neck  and  shoulders, 
while  the  superannuated  comb  lay  at  her  feet.  As  I 
hastily  entered  the  room,  she  manifested  some  mor 
tification,  that  I  should  have  surprised  her  in  the  midst 
of  so  much  confusion,  and  throwing  her  handkerchief 
over  her  papers,  laughingly  asked,  what  I  thought  of 
the  Petition?  I  advised  her  to  send  directly  to  the 
"  well  filled  glittering  shelf,"  as  I  had  no  desire  to  see 
the  curse  denounced  verified,  or  her 

"  Elf  locks  fly 
For  ever  'round  her  brow." 


xiv  DEDICATION. 

«  Maritorne  or  the  Pirate  of  Mexico,"  was  written 
in  Albany,  during  her  stay  at  the  Institution  of  Miss 
Gilbert,  at  a  time  when  she  was  ill,  in  the  brief  space  of 
three  weeks  while  getting  daily  lessons  like  any  other 
school  girl.  During  that  period,  she  also  produced 
several  fugitive  pieces.  She  had  been  absent  from 
home  but  six  weeks  when  I  was  summoned  to  attend 
my  dying  child,  who  had  then  been  confined  to  her 
bed  three  weeks.  On  the  morning  after  my  arrival, 
she  desired  me  to  collect  the  scattered  sheets  of  Ma 
ritorne,  and  expressed  much  sorrow  when  she  found 
that  some  were  missing.  She  told  rne  with  tears,  that 
she  feared  she  could  never  supply  the  loss,  and  said, 
"  Do  mamma  take  care  of  what  remains,  it  is  thus  far 
the  best  thing  I  ever  wrote." 

After,  her  death,  in  her  portfolio,  which  her  nurse 
told  me  she  used  every  day  sitting  in  bed,  supported 
by  pillows,  I  found  the  "  Last  Farewell  to  my  Harp" 
and  the  "  Fear  of  Madness,"  both  written  in  a  feeble 
irregular  hand,  and  evidently  under  a  state  of  strong 
mental  excitement.  By  their  side  lay  the  unfinished 
head  of  a  Madonna,  copied  from  a  painting  executed 
several  centuries  ago,  and  with  the  drawing  lay  also 
the  unfinished  poem  suggested  by  the  painting, 

"Roll  back  thou  tide  of  time  and  tell." 

In  the  "Last  Farewell  to  my  Harp,"  the  presenti 
ment  of  her  death,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  is  strongly  por 
trayed,  mingled  with  the  feeling  of  presumption  which 
she  often  manifested  in  having  "  dared  to  gaze" 


DEDICATION.  xv 

"  Upon  the  lamp  which  never  can  expire, 
The  undying,  wild,  poetic  fire. 

There  is  something  extremely  touching  in  the  last 
stanzas. 

"  And  here  my  harp  we  part  for  ever, 
I'll  waken  thee  again — oh!  never; 
Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 
And  thou  shall  calmly  slumber  here!" 

"The  Fear  of  Madness." — The  reader  will  find 
his  sympathies  all  awakened  upon  perusing  this  un 
finished  fragment  from  the  pen  of  the  lovely  sufferer. 
It  leaves  too  painful  a  sensation  upon  the  mind  to 
admit  a  comment. 

I  have  suppressed  a  very  few  of  the  poems  hereto 
fore  published,  and  have  added  many  new  ones. 
I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Sir,  your  very  sincere 
and  obliged  friend, 

M.  M.  D. 

SARATOGA  SPRINGS, 
Augt.  1841. 


BIOGRAPHY 


LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON  was  born  at  Platts- 
burgh,  in  the  state  of  New  York,  on  the  27th  of  Sep 
tember,  1808.  Her  father,  Dr.  Oliver  Davidson,  is  a 
lover  of  science,  and  a  man  of  intellectual  tastes. 
Her  mother,  Margaret  Davidson,  (born  Miller,)  is  of 
a  most  respectable  family,  and  received  the  best  edu 
cation  her  times  afforded  at  the  school  of  the  cele 
brated  Scottish  lady,  Isabella  Graham,  an  institution 
in  the  city  of  New  York,  that  had  no  rival  in  its  day, 
and  which  derived  advantages  from  the  distinguished 
individual  that  presided  over  it,  that  can  scarcely  be 
counterbalanced  by  the  multiplied  masters  and  multi 
form  studies  of  the  present  day.  The  family  of  Miss 
Davidson  lived  in  seclusion.  Their  pleasures  and 
excitements  were  intellectual.  Her  mother  has  suf 
fered  year  after  year  from  ill  health  and  debility;  and 
being  a  person  of  imaginative  character,  and  most 
ardent  and  susceptible  feelings,  employed  on  domestic 
incidents,  and  concentrated  in  maternal  tenderness, 
she  naturally  loved  and  cherished  her  daughter's 
3 


34  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

marvellous  gifts,  and  added  to  the  intensity  of  the  fire 
with  which  her  genius  and  her  affections,  mingling  in 
one  holy  flame,  burned  till  they  consumed  their  mor 
tal  investments.  We  should  not  have  ventured  to  say 
thus  much  of  the  mother,  who  still  survives  to  weep 
and  to  rejoice  over  her  dead  child  more  than  many 
parents  over  their  living  ones,  were  it  not  to  prove, 
that  Lucretia  Davidson's  character  was  not  miracu 
lous,  but  that  this  flower  of  paradise  was  nurtured 
and  trained  by  natural  means  and  influences. 

The  physical  delicacy  of  this  fragile  creature  was 
apparent  in  infancy.  When  eighteen  months  old  she 
had  a  typhus  fever  which  threatened  her  life;  but 
nature  put  forth  its  mysterious  energy,  and  she 
became  stronger  and  healthier  than  before  her  illness. 
No  records  were  made  of  her  early  childhood,  save 
that  she  was  by  turns  very  gay  and  very  thoughtful, 
exhibiting  thus  early  these  common  manifestations  of 
extreme  sensibility.  Her  first  literary  acquisition 
indicated  her  after  course.  She  learned  her  letters  at 
once.  At  the  age  of  four  she  was  sent  to  the  Platts- 
burgh  Academy,  where  she  learned  to  read  and  to 
form  letters  in  sand  after  the  Lancasterian  method. 
As  soon  as  she  could  read,  her  books  drew  her  away 
from  the  plays  of  childhood,  and  she  was  constantly 
found  absorbed  in  the  little  volumes  that  her  father 
lavished  upon  her.  Her  mother,  on  some  occasion  in 
haste  to  write  a  letter,  looked  in  vain  for  a  sheet  of 
paper.  A  whole  quire  had  strangely  disappeared 
from  the  table  on  which  the  writing  implements 
usually  lay;  she  expressed  a  natural  vexation.  Her 


BIOGRAPHY.  35 

little  girl  came  forward,  confused,  and  said,  "  Mamma, 
I  have  used  it."  Her  mother,  knowing  she  had  never 
been  taught  to  write,  was  amazed,  and  asked  what 
possible  use  she  could  have  for  it.  Lucretia  burst  into 
tears,  and  replied  that  "she  did  not  like  to  tell."  Her 
mother  suspected  the  childish  mystery,  and  made  no 
farther  inquiries.  The  paper  continued  to  vanish, 
and  the  child  was  often  observed  with  pen  and  ink, 
still  sedulously  shunning  observation.  At  last  her 
mother,  on  seeing  her  make  a  blank  book,  asked  what 
she  was  going  to  do  with  it?  Lucretia  blushed,  and 
left  the  room  without  replying.  This  sharpened  her 
mother's  curiosity;  she  watched  the  child  narrowly, 
and  saw  that  she  made  quantities  of  these  little  books, 
and  that  she  was  disturbed  by  observation;  and  if  one 
of  the  family  requested  to  see  them,  she  would  burst 
into  tears,  and  run  away  to  hide  her  secret  treasure. 

The  mystery  remained  unexplained  till  she  was  six 
years  old,  when  her  mother,  in  exploring  a  closet 
rarely  opened,  found  behind  piles  of  linen,  a  parcel  of 
papers  which  proved  to  be  Lucretia's  manuscript 
books.  At  first,  the  hieroglyphics  seemed  to  baffle 
investigation.  On  one  side  of  the  leaf  was  an  artfully 
sketched  picture;  on  the  other,  Roman  letters,  some 
placed  upright,  others  horizontally,  obliquely,  or 
backwards,  not  formed  into  words,  nor  spaced  in  any 
mod6.  Both  parents  pored  over  them  till  they  ascer 
tained  the  letters  were  poetical  explanations  in  metre 
and  rhyme  of  the  picture  in  the  reverse.  The  little 
books  were  carefully  put  away  as  literary  curiosities. 
Not  long  after  this,  Lucretia  came  riyining  to  her  mo- 


36  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

ther,  painfully  agitated,  her  face  covered  with  her 
hands,  and  tears  trickling  down  between  her  slender 
fingers— " Oh,  mamma!  mamma!"  she  cried, sobbing, 
«  how  could  you  treat  me  so?  You  have  not  used  me 
well!  My  little  books!  you  have  shown  them  to  papa, 
—Anne— Eliza,  I  know  you  have.  Oh,  what  shall  I 
do?"  Her  mother  pleaded  guilty,  and  tried  to  soothe 
the  child  by  promising  not  to  do  so  again;  Lucretia's 
face  brightened,  a  sunny  smile  played  through  her 
tears  as  she  replied,  "  Oh,  mamma,  I  am  not  afraid 
you  will  do  so  again,  for  I  have  burned  them  all;" 
and  so  she  had!  This  reserve  proceeded  from  no 
thing  cold  or  exclusive  in  her  character;  never  was 
there  a  more  loving  or  sympathetic  creature.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  say  which  was  most  rare,  her 

modesty,  or  the  genius  it  sanctified. She  did  not 

learn  to  write  till  she  was  between  six  and  seven;  her 
passion  for  knowledge  was  then  rapidly  developing; 
she  read  with  the  closest  attention,  and  was  continu 
ally  running  to  her  parents  with  questions  and  re 
marks  that  startled  them.  At  a  very  early  age,  her 
mother  implanted  the  seeds  of  religion,  the  first  that 
should  be  sown  in  the  virgin  soil  of  the  heart.  That 
the  dews  of  Heaven  fell  upon  them,  is  evident  from 
the  breathing  of  piety  throughout  her  poetry,  and  still 
more  from  its  precious  fruit  in  her  life.  Her  mother 
remarks,  that,  "  from  her  earliest  years,  she  evinced  a 
fear  of  doing  anything  displeasing  in  the  sight  of  God; 
and  if,  in  her  gayest  sallies,  she  caught  a  look  of  dis 
approbation  from  me,  she  would  ask  with  the  most 
artless  simplicity,  < Oh,  mother,  was  that  wicked?'  " 


BIOGRAPHY.  37 

There  are  very  early,  in  most  children's  lives,  cer 
tain  conventional  limits  to  their  humanity,  only  cer 
tain  forms  of  animal  life  that  are  respected  and  che 
rished.  A  robin,  a  butterfly,  or  a  kitten  is  a  legitimate 
object  of  their  love  and  caresses;  but  woe  to  the  bee 
tle,  the  caterpillar,  or  the  rat  that  is  thrown  upon  their 
tender  mercies.  Lucretia  Davidson  made  no  such 
artificial  discriminations;  she  seemed  to  have  an  in 
stinctive  kindness  for  every  living  thing.  When  she 
was  about  nine,  one  of  her  schoolfellows  gave  her  a 
young  rat  that  had  broken  its  leg  in  attempting  to 
escape  from  a  trap;  she  tore  off  a  part  of  her  pocket 
handkerchief,  bound  up  the  maimed  leg,  carried  the 
animal  home,  and  nursed  it  tenderly.  The  rat,  in 
spite  of  the  care  of  its  little  leech,  died,  and  was  bu 
ried  in  the  garden,  and  honoured  with  the  meed  of  a 
"melodious  tear."  This  lament  has  not  been  pre 
served;  but  one  she  wrote  soon  after,  on  the  death  of 
a  maimed  pet  Robin,  is  given  here  as  the  earliest 
record  of  her  muse  that  has  been  preserved: — 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  ROBIN. 

"  Underneath  this  turf  doth  lie 
A  little  bird  which  ne'er  could  fly, 
Twelve  large  angle  worms  did  fill 
This  little  bird,  whom  they  did  kill. 
Puss!  if  you  should  chance  to  smell 
My  little  bird  from  his  dark  cell, 
Oh!  do  be  merciful  my  cat, 
And  not  serve  him,  as  you  did  my  rat!" 

Her  application  to  her  studies  at  school  was  intense. 


35  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Her  mother  judiciously,  but  in  vain,  attempted  a  diver 
sion  in  favour  of  that  legitimate  sedative  to  female 
genius,  the  needle;  Lucretia  performed  her  prescribed 
tasks  with  fidelity,  and  with  amazing  celerity,  and  was 
again  buried  in  her  book. 

When  she  was  about  twelve,  she  accompanied  her 
father  to  the  celebration  of  Washington's  birth-night. 
The  music  and  decorations  excited  her  imagination; 
but  it  was  not  with  her,  as  with  most  children,  the 
mere  pleasure  of  stimulated  sensations;  she  bad  studied 
the  character  and  history  of  the  father  of  her  country, 
and  the  "fete"  stirred  up  her  enthusiasm,  and  inspired 
that  feeling  of  actual  existence,  and  presence  peculiar 
to  minds  of  her  temperament. 

To  the  imaginative  there  is  an  extension  of  life,  far 
back  into  the  dim  past,  and  forward  into  the  untried 
future,  denied  to  those  of  common  mould. 

The  day  after  the  fete,  her  elder  sister  found  her 
absorbed  in  writing.  She  bad  sketched  an  urn,  and 
written  two  stanzas  beneath  it:  she  was  persuaded  to 
show  them  to  her  mother;  she  brought  them  blushing, 
and  trembling;  her  mother  was  ill,  in  bed;  but  she  ex 
pressed  her  delight  with  such  unequivocal  animation, 
that  the  child's  face  changed  from  doubt  to  rapture, 
and  she  seized  the  paper,  ran  away,  and  immediately 
added  the  concluding  stanzas;  when  they  were  finish 
ed,  her  mother  pressed  her  to  her  bosom,  wept  with 
delight,  and  promised  her  all  the  aid  and  encourage 
ment  she  could  give  her;  the  sensitive  child  burst  into 
tears.  «  And  do  you  wish  me  to  write  mamma?  and  will 
papa  approve?— and  will  it  be  right  that  I  should  do 


r'.-  -•::•;  : 


ftay,t»] 
Tfee  vifavr.  and  ber  « 
erfWi 


tbesusefl 


40  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

ed  her  suspicions  to  Lucretia— she  felt  her  rectitude 
impeached,  and  this,  and  not  the  wounded  pride  of  the 
young  author,  made  her  weep  till  she  was  actually  ill; 
as  soon  as  she  recovered  her  tranquillity,  she  offered  a 
poetic  and  playful  remonstrance,  which  set  the  matter 
at  rest,  and  put  an  end  to  all  future  question  of  the 
authenticity  of  her  productions.  Before  she  was  twelve 
years  old  she  had  read  the  English  poets.  "  The  Eng 
lish  poets,"  says  Southey,  in  his  review  of  Miss 
Davidson's  poems,  though  a  vague  term,  was  a  whole 
some  course,  for  such  a  mind.  She  had  read,  beside, 
much  history,  sacred  and  profane,  novels,  and  other 
works  of  imagination. — Dramatic  works  were  parti 
cularly  attractive  to  her;  her  devotion  to  Shakspeare 
is  expressed  in  an  address  to  him  written  about  this 
time,  from  which  we  extract  the  following  stanza: — 

"  Heaven,  in  compassion  to  man's  erring  heart, 
Gave  thee  of  virtue,  then  of  vice  a  part, 
Lest  we  in  wonder  here,  should  bow  before  thee, 
Break  God's  commandment,  worship  and  adore  thee." 

Ordinary  romances,  and  even  those  highly  wrought 
fictions,  that  without  any  type  in  nature  have  such  a 
mischievous  charm  for  most  imaginative  young  per 
sons,  she  instinctively  rejected;  her  healthy  appetite, 
keen  as  it  was,  was  under  the  government  of  a  pure 
and  sound  nature.  Her  mother,  always  aware  of  the 
worth  of  the  gem  committed  to  her  keeping,  amidst 
her  sufferings  from  ill  health  kept  a  watchful  eye  on 
her  child,  directed  her  pursuits,  and  sympathized  in 
all  her  little  school  labours  and  trials;  she  perceived 


BIOGRAPHY.  41 

that  Lucretia  was  growing  pale  and  sickly  over  her 
studies,  and  she  judiciously  withdrew  her,  for  a  time, 
from  school.  She  was  soon  rewarded  for  this  wise 
measure  by  hearing  her  child's  bounding  step  as  she 
approached  her  sick  room,  and  seeing  the  cheek  bent 
over  her  pillow  blooming  with  returning  health. 
How  miserably  mistaken  are  those,  who  fancy  that 
all  the  child's  lessons  must  be  learned  from  the  school- 
book  and  school-room!  This  apt  pupil  of  nature  had 
only  changed  her  books  and  her  master;  now,  she  sat 
at  the  feet  of  the  great  teacher,  nature,  and  read,  and 
listened,  and  thought,  as  she  wandered  along  the 
Saranac,  or  contemplated  the  varying  aspects  of  Cum 
berland  Bay.  She  would  sit  for  hours  and  watch  the 
progress  of  a  thunder-storm,  from  the  first  gathering 
of  the  clouds,  to  the  farewell  smile  of  the  rainbow. 
We  give  a  specimen  of  the  impression  of  these  studies 
in  the  following  extract  from  her  unpublished  poems. 

TWILIGHT. 

How  sweet  the  hour  when  daylight  blends 
With  the  pensive  shadows  on  evening's  breast! 

Arid-dear  to  this  heart  is  the  pleasure  it  lends, 
For  'tis  like  the  departure  of  saints  to  their  rest. 

Oh!  'tis  sweet,  Saranac,  on  thy  lov'd  banks  to  stray, 
To  watch  the  last  day-beam  dance  light  o'er  thy  wave, 

To  mark  the  white  skiff  as  it  skims  o'er  the  Bay, 
Or  heedlessly  bounds  o'er  the  warrior's  deep  grave.* 

*  Cumberland  Bay  was  the  scene  of  a  battle  during  the  last 
war. 


42  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Oh!  'tis  sweet  to  a  heart  unentangled  and  light, 

When  with  hope's  brilliant  prospects  the  fancy  is  blest, 

To  pause  'mid  its  day  dreams  so  witchingly  bright, 
And  maxk  the  last  sunbeams  while  sinking  to  rest. 


The  following,  from  her  unpublished  poems,  is  the 
result  of  the  same  pensive  meditations. 

THE  EVENING  SPIRIT. 

When  the  pale  moon  is  shining  bright 

And  nought  disturbs  the  gloom  of  night, 

'Tis  then  upon  yon  level  green, 

From  which  St.  Glair's  dark  heights  are  seen, 

The  Evening  Spirit  glides  along, 

And  chaunts  her  melancholy  song ; 

Or  leans  upon  a  snowy  cloud 

And  its  white  skirts  her  figure  shroud. 

By  zephyrs  light  she's  wafted  far, 

And  contemplates  the  northern  star, 

Or  gazes  from  her  silvery  throne, 

On  that  pale  queen  the  silent  moon. 

Who  is  the  Evening  Spirit  fair, 

That  hovers  o'er  thy  walls,  St.  Clair  1 

Who  is  it,  that  with  footstep  light, 

Breathes  the  calm  silence  of  the  night  ? 

Ask  the  light  zephyr  who  conveys 

Her  fairy  figure  o'er  the  waves ; 

Ask  yon  bright  fleecy  cloud  of  night, 

Ask  yon  pale  planet's  silver  light, 

Why  does  the  Evening  Spirit  fair 

Sail  o'er  the  walls  of  dark  St.  Clair  1 

In  her  thirteenth  year  the  clouds  seemed  heavily 


BIOGRAPHY.  43 

gathering  over  her  morning;  her  mother  who  had 
hitherto  been  her  guide  and  companion,  could  no 
longer  extend  to  her  child  the  sympathy  and  encou 
ragement  which  she  needed.  Lucretia  was  oppressed 
with  the  apprehension  of  losing  this  fond  parent,  who 
for  weeks  and  months  seemed  upon  the  verge  of  the 
grave.  There  are  among  her  unpublished  poems, 
some  touching  lines  to  her  mother,  written  I  believe 
about  this  time,  concluding  thus: — 

"Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow, 

That  weeps  o'er  every  passing  wave; 
This  life  is  but  a  restless  pillow, 

There's  calm  and  peace  beyond  the  grave." 

As  Mrs.  Davidson's  health  gradually  amended, 
with  it  returned  her  desire  to  give  her  daughter  every 
means  in.  her  power  to  aid  the  development  of  her 
extraordinary  genius.  Her  extreme  sensibility  and 
delicate  health,  subjected  her  at  times,  to  depres 
sions  of  spirit;  but  she  had  nothing  of  the  morbid 
dejection^  the  exclusiveness,  and  hostility  to  the  world, 
that  are  the  results  of  self-exaggeration,  selfishness, 
and  self-idolatry,  and  not  the  natural  offspring  of 
genius  and  true  feeling,  which,  in  their  healthy  state, 
are  pure  and  living  fountains  flowing  out  in  abundant 
streams  of  love  and  kindness.* 

*  Genius,  like  many  other  sovereigns,  has  been  allowed  the 
exercise  of  unreasonable  prerogatives;  but  none  perhaps  much 
more  mischievous,  than  the  right  to  confer  on  self-indulgence 
the  gracious  name  of  sensibility. 


44  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Indulgent  as  Mrs.  Davidson  was,  she  was  too  wise 
to  permit  Lucretia  to  forego  entirely  the  customary 
employments  of  her  sex.  When  engaged  with  these 
it  seems  she  sometimes  played  truant  with  the  muse; 
once  she  had  promised  to  do  a  sewing  task,  and  had 
eagerly  run  off  for  her  work  basket;  she  loitered,  and 
when  she  returned,  she  found  her  mother  had  done 
the  work,  and  that  there  was  a  shade  of  just  displeasure 
on  her  countenance.  "  Oh  mamma!"  she  said,  "  I  did 
forget,  I  am  grieved,  I  did  not  mean  to  neglect  you." 
"  Where  have  you  been,  Lucretia?"  "  I  have  been 
writing,"  she  replied,  confused;  "as  I  passed  the  win 
dow,  I  saw  a  solitary  sweet  Pea,  I  thought  they  were 
all  gone;  this  was  alone;  I  ran  to  smell  it,  but  before  I 
could  reach  it  a  gust  of  wind  broke  the  stem,  I  turned 
away  disappointed  and  was  coming  back  to  you;  but 
as  I  passed  the  table  there  stood  the  inkstand,  and  I 
forgot  you."  If  our  readers  will  turn  to  her  printed 
poems  and  read  the  "  Last  Flower  of  the  Garden," 
they  will  not  wonder  that  her  mother  kissed  her,  and 
bade  her  never  resist  a  similar  impulse. 

When  in  her  "happy  moments,"  as  she  termed 
them,  the  impulse  to  write  was  irresistible — she 
always  wrote  rapidly,  and  sometimes  expressed  a 
wish  that  she  had  two  pairs  of  hands,  to  record  as 
fast  as  she  composed.  She  wrote  her  short  pieces 
standing,  often  three  or  four  in  a  day,  in  the  midst  of 
the  family,  blind  and  deaf  to  all  around  her,  wrapt  in 
her  own  visions.  She  herself  describes  these  visita 
tions  of  her  muse,  in  an  address  to  her,  beginning — 


BIOGRAPHY.  45 

"  Enchanted  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 

I  drop  each  earthly  care; 
I  feel  as  wafted  from  the  world 
To  Fancy's  realms  of  air." 


When  composing  her  long,  and  complicated  poems, 
like  "Amir  Khan,"  she  required  entire  seclusion;  if 
her  pieces  were  seen  in  the  process  of  production,  the 
spell  was  dissolved,  she  could  not  finish  them,  and 
they  were  cast  aside  as  rubbish.  When  writing  a 
poem  of  considerable  length,  she  retired  to  her  own 
apartment,  closed  the  blinds,  and  in  warm  weather, 
placed  her  .ZEolian  harp  in  the  window.  Her  mother 
has  described  her  on  one  of  these  occasions,  when  an 
artist  would  have  painted  her  as  a  young  genius  com 
muning  with  her  muse.  We  quote  her  mother's  gra 
phic  description:  "  I  entered  her  room — she  was  sitting 
with  scarcely  light  enough  to  discern  the  characters 
she  was  tracing;  her  harp  was  in  the  window,  touched 
by  aHrfeeze  just  sufficient  to  rouse  the  spirit  of  harmony; 
her  comb  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  and  her  long  dark 
ringlets  hung  in  rich  profusion  over  her  neck  and 
shoulders,  her  cheek  glowed  with  animation,  her  lips 
were  half  unclosed,  her  full  dark  eye  was  radiant  with 
the  light  of  genius,  and  beaming  with  sensibility,  her 
head  rested  on  her  left  hand,  while  she  held  her  pen 
in  her  right — she  looked  like  the  inhabitant  of  another 
sphere;  she  was  so  wholly  absorbed  that  she  did  not 
observe  my  entrance.  I  looked  over  her  shoulder 
and  read  the  following  lines: 


46  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

"  What  heavenly  music  strikes  my  ravish'd  ear, 
So  soft,  so  melancholy,  and  so  clear? 
And  do  the  tuneful  nine  then  touch  the  lyre, 
To  fill  each  bosom  with  poetic  fire? 
Or  does  some  angel  strike  the  sounding  strings 
Who  caught  from  echo  the  wild  note  he  sings'? 
But  ah!  another  strain,  how  sweet!  how  wild! 
Now  rushing  low,  'tis  soothing  soft  and  mild." 

The  noise  I  made  in  leaving  the  room  roused  her, 
and  she  soon  after  brought  me  her  "  Lines  to  an 
JEo\isin  Harp."  During  the  winter  of  1822  she  wrote 
a  poetical  romance,  entitled  "Nodri."  She  burned 
this,  save  a  few  fragments  found  after  her  death. 
These  indicate  a  well  contrived  story,  and  marked  by 
the  marvellous  ease  and  grace  that  characterized  her 
versification.  During  this  winter  she  wrote  also  a 
tragedy, "  The  Reward  of  Ambition,"  the  only  pro 
duction  she  ever  read  aloud  to  her  family.  The  fol 
lowing  summer,  her  health  again  failing,  she  was 
withdrawn  again  from  school,  and  sent  on  a  visit  to 
some  friends  in  Canada.  A  letter,  too  long  to  be  in 
serted  here  entire,  gives  a  very  interesting  account  of 
the  impression  produced  on  this  little  thoughtful  and 
feeling  recluse  by  new  objects,  and  new  aspects  of 
society.  "  We  visited,"  says  the  writer,  "  the  British 
fortifications  at  Isle-aux-Noix.  The  broad  ditch,  the 
lofty  ramparts,  the  drawbridge,  the  covered  gateway, 
the  wide-mouthed  cannon,  the  Arsenal,  and  all  the 
imposing  paraphernalia  of  a  military  fortress,  seemed 
connected  in  her  mind  with  powerful  associations  of 
what  she  had  read,  but  never  viewed  before.  Instead 


BIOGRAPHY.  47 

of  shrinking  from  objects  associated  with  carnage  and 
death,  like  many  who  possess  not  half  her  sensibility, 
she  appeared  for  the  moment  to  be  attended  by  the 
god  of  war,  and  drank  the  spirit  of  battles  and 
sieges,  with  the  bright  vision  before  her  eyes,  of  con 
quering  heroes,  and  wreaths  of  victory."  It  is  curi 
ous  to  see  thus  early  the  effect  of  story  and  song  in 
overcoming  the  instincts  of  nature;  to  see  this  tender, 
gentle  creature  contemplating  the  engines  of  war,  not 
with  natural  dread  as  instruments  of  torture  and  death, 
but  rather  as  the  forges  by  which  triumphal  cars 
and  wreaths  of  victory  were  to  be  wrought.  A  similar 
manifestation  of  the  effect  of  tradition  and  association 
on  her  poetic  imagination  is  described  in  the  following 
passages  from  the  same  letter.  "  She  found  much  less 
in  the  Protestant  than  in  the  Catholic  churches  to 
awaken  those  romantic  and  poetic  associations,  created 
by  the  record  of  events  in  the  history  of  antiquity  and 
traditional  story,  and  much  less  to  accord  with  the 
fictions  of  her  high-wrought  imagination.  In  view 
ing  the  buildings  of  the  city,  or  the  paintings  in  the 
churches,  the  same  uniformity  of  taste  was  observable. 
The  modern,  however  beautiful  in  design  or  execution, 
had  little  power  to  fix  her  attention;  while  the  grand, 
the  ancient,  the  romantic,  seized  upon  her  imagina 
tion  with  irresistible  power.  The  sanctity  of  time, 
seemed  to  her  mind,  to  give  a  sublimity  to  the  simplest 
objects;  and  whatever  was  connected  with  great  events 
in  history,  or  with  the  lapse  of  ages  long  gone  by, 
riveted  and  absorbed  every  faculty  of  her  mind. 
During  our  visit  to  the  nunneries  she  said  but  little, 


48  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

and  seemed  abstracted  in  thought,  as  if,  as  she  herself 
so  beautifully  expresses  it,  to 

"Roll  back  the  tide  of  time,  and  raise 
The  faded  forms  of  other  days." 

"She  had  an  opportunity  of  viewing  an  elegant  col 
lection  of  paintings.  She  seemed  in  ecstasies  all  the 
evening,  and  every  feature  beamed  with  joy.'7  The 
writer,  after  proceeding  to  give  an  account  of  her  sur 
prising  success  in  attempts  at  pencil-sketches  from 
nature,  expresses  his  delight  and  amazement  at  the 
attainments  of  this  girl  of  fourteen  years  in  general 
literature,  and  at  the  independence  and  originality  of 
mind  that  resisted  the  subduing,  and,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  expression,  the  subordinating  effect  of  this 
early  intimacy  with  captivating  models.  A  marvellous 
resistance,  if  we  take  into  the  account  "  that  timid,  re 
tiring  modesty,"  which,  as  the  writer  of  the  letter  says, 
"  marked  her  even  to  painful  excess."  Lucretia  re 
turned  to  her  mother  with  renovated  health,  and  her 
mind  bright  with  new  impressions  and  joyous  emo 
tions.  Religion  is  the  natural,  and  only  sustaining  ele 
ment  of  such  a  character.  Where,  but  at  the  ever 
fresh,  sweet,  and  life-giving  fountains  of  the  Bible, 
could  such  a  spirit  have  drunk,  and  not  again  thirsted? 
During  the  winter  of  1823,  she  applied  herself  more 
closely  than  ever  to  her  studies.  She  read  the  Holy 
Scriptures  with  fixed  attention.  She  almost  committed 
to  memory  the  Psalms  of  David,  the  Lamentations  of 
Jeremiah,  and  the  book  of  Job,  guided  in  her  selection 


BIOGRAPHY.  49 

by  her  poetic  taste.  Byron  somewhere  pronounces 
the  book  of  Job,  the  sublimest  poetry  on  record.  During 
the  winter  Miss  Davidson  wrote  "  A  Hymn  on  Crea 
tion,"  "  The  Exit  from  Egyptian  Bondage,"  and  ver 
sified  many  chapters  of  the  Bible.  She  read  the  New 
Testament,  and  particularly  those  parts  of  it  that  con 
tain  the  most  affecting  passages  in  the  history  of  our 
Saviour,  with  the  deepest  emotion. 

In  her  intellectual  pursuits  and  attainments  only 
was  she  premature.  She  retained  unimpaired,  the 
innocence,  simplicity  and  modesty  of  a  child.  We  have 
had  descriptions  of  the  extreme  loveliness  of  her  face, 
and  gracefulness  of  her  person,  from  less  doubtful 
authority  than  a  fond  mother. 

Our  country  towns  are  not  regulated  by  the  conven 
tional  systems  of  the  cities,  where  a  youthful  beauty  is 
warily  confined  to  the  nursery  and  the  school  till  the 
prescribed  age  for  coming  out,  the  coup-de-theatre  of 
every  young  city-woman's  life  arrives.  In  the  country, 
as  soon  as  a  girl  can  contribute  to  the  pleasures  of  so 
ciety,  she  is  invited  into  it.  During  the  winter  of  1823, 
Plattsburgh  was  gay,  and  Miss  Davidson  was  eagerly 
sought  to  embellish  the  village  dances.  She  had  been 
at  a  dancing  school,  and,  like  most  young  persons,  en 
joyed  excessively  this  natural  exercise;  for  that  may  be 
called  natural  which  exists  among  all  nations,  barba 
rous  and  civilized. 

Mrs.  Davidson  has  given  an  account  of  her  daugh 
ter's  first  ball,  which  all  young  ladies,  at  least,  will 
thank  us  for  transcribing  almost  verbatim,  as  it  places 
her  more  within  the  circle  of  their  sympathies.  Her 
4 


50  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

mother  had  consented  to  her  attending  one  or  two  pub 
lic  assemblies,  in  the  hope  they  might  diminish  her 
extreme  timidity,  painful  both  to  Lncretia  and  her 
friends.  The  day  arrived;  Mrs.  Davidson  was  con 
sulting  with  her  eldest  daughter  upon  the  all-important 
matter  of  the  dresses  for  the  evening;  Lucretia  sat  by, 
reading,  without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  book,  one 
of  the  Waverley  novels.  "  Mamma,  what  shall  Lucy 
wear?"  asked  her  eldest  sister,  calling  her  by  the  pretty 
diminutive  by  which  they  usually  addressed  her  at 
home.  "  Come  Lucretia,  what  colour  will  you  wear 
to-night?"  "  Where?"  "  Where,  why  to  the  assem 
bly,  to  be  sure."  "  The  assembly,  is  it  to-night?  so  it 
is!"  and  she  tossed  away  the  book  and  danced  about 
the  room  half  wild  with  delight;  her  sister  at  length 
called  her  to  order,  and  the  momentous  questions  re 
specting  the  dress  was  definitively  settled;  she  then 
resumed  her  reading,  and  giving  no  thought  to  the 
ball,  she  was  again  absorbed  in  her  book.  This  did 
not  result  from  carelessness  of  appearance,  or  indiffer 
ence  to  dress;  on  the  contrary  she  was  rather  remark 
able  for  that  nice  taste,  which  belongs  to  an  eye  for 
proportion  and  colouring;  and  any  little  embellishment 
or  ornament  she  wore  was  well  chosen,  and  well 
placed;  but  she  had  the  right  estimate  of  the  relative 
value  of  objects,  which  belongs  to  a  superior  mind. 
When  the  evening  approached  the  star  of  the  ball 
again  shone  forth,  she  threw  aside  her  book,  and  be 
gan  the  offices  of  the  toilet  with  girlish  interest,  and  it 
might  be,  with  some  heart-beating  at  the  probable 
effect  of  the  lovely  face  her  mirror  reflected.  Her  sister 


BIOGRAPHY.  51 

was  to  arrange  her  hair.  Lucretia  put  on  her  dress 
ing-gown  to  await  her  convenience:  but  when  the 
time  came,  she  was  missing;  "  we  called  her  in  vain," 
says  Mrs.  Davidson;  "at  last,  opening  the  parlour  door 
I  distinctly  saw,  for  it  was  twilight,  some  person  sit 
ting  behind  the  large  close  stove;  I  approached,  and 
found  Lucretia  writing  poetry!  moralizing  on  what 
the  world  calls  pleasure!"  I  was  almost  dumb  with 
amazement — she  was  eager  to  go,  delighted  with  the 
prospect  of  pleasure  before  her;  yet  she  acted  as  if  the 
time  were  too  precious  to  spend  in  the  necessary  pre 
parations,  and  she  sat  still,  and  finished  the  last  stan 
za,  while  I  stood  by,  mute  with  astonishment  at  this 
strange  learning  in  a  girl  of  fourteen,  preparing  to  at 
tend  her  first  ball,  an  event  she  had  anticipated  with 
so  many  mingled  emotions."  "  She  returned  from 
the  assembly,"  continues  her  mother,  "  wild  with  de 
light."  "Oh  mamma,"  said  she,  "  I  wish  you  had 
been  there!  when  I  first  entered,  the  glare  of  light 
dazzled  my  eyes,  my  head  whirled,  and  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  treading  on  air;  all  was  so  gay,  so  brilliant!  but 
I  grew  tired  at  last,  and  was  glad  to  hear  sister  say  it 
was  time  to  go  home." 

The  next  day  the  ball  was  dismissed  from  her 
mind,  and  she  returned  to  her  studies  with  her  cus 
tomary  ardour.  During  the  winter  she  read  "  Jose- 
phus,"  Charles  the  Fifth,  Charles  Twelfth;  read  over 
Shakspeare,  and  various  other  works  in  prose  and 
poetry;  she  particularly  liked  "Addison,"  and  read 
almost  every  day  a  portion  of  the  Spectator.  Her 
ardent  love  of  literature  seldom  interfered  with  her 


52  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

social  dispositions,  never  with  her  domestic  affections; 
she  was  ever  the  life  and  joy  of  the  home  circle. 
Great  demands  were  made  on  her  feelings  about  this 
time  by  two  extraordinary  domestic  events;  the  mar 
riage  and  removal  of  her  elder  sister,  her  beloved 
friend  and  companion;  and  the  birth  of  another,  the 
little  Margaret,  so  often  the  fond  subject  of  her  poetry. 
New,  and  doubtless  sanative  emotions  were  called 
forth  by  this  last  event.  The  following  lines  from  her 
published  poems  were  written  about  this  time. 

Sweet  babe!  I  cannot  hope  that  thou'lt  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all  since  earliest  time  decreed; 
But  may'st  thou  be  with  resignation  blessed, 
To  bear  each  evil  howsoe'er  distressed. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form; 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace, 
To  the  rude  whirlwind  softly  whisper — cease! 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's  own  darling  child, 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  that  world  of  woe, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 

And  when  this  vale  of  years  is  safely  passed, 
When  death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 

The  following  lines,  never  before  published,  and,  as 
we  think,  marked  by  more  originality  and  beauty, 


BIOGRAPHY.  53 

were  written  soon  after,  and,  as  those  above,  with  her 
infant  sister  in  her  lap.  What  a  subject  for  a  painter 
would  this  beautiful  impersonation  of  genius  and  love 
have  presented. 

THE  SMILE  OF  INNOCENCE. 

(Written  at  the  age  of  fifteen.) 

There  is  a  smile  of  bitter  scorn, 

Which  curls  the  lip,  which  lights  the  eye; 

There  is  a  smile  in  beauty's  morn, 
Just  rising  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 

There  is  a  smile  of  youthful  joy, 

When  Hope's  bright  star's  the  transient  guest; 
There  is  a  smile  of  placid  age, 

Like  sunset  on  the  billows  breast. 

There  is  a  smile,  the  maniac's  smile, 

Which  lights  the  void  which  reason  leaves, 

And  like  the  sunshine  through  a  cloud, 

Throws  shadows  o'er  the  song  she  weaves. 

There  is  a  smile,  of  love,  of  hope, 

Which  shines  a  meteor  through  life's  gloom; 

And  there's  a  smile,  Religion's  smile, 
Which  lights  the  weary  to  the  tomb. 

There  is  a  smile,  an  angel's  smile, 

That  sainted  souls  behind  them  leave. 
There  is  a  smile  which  shines  thro'  toil, 

And  warms  the  bosom  though  in  grief; 

And  there's  a  smile  on  nature's  face, 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around; 


54  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

A  pensive  smile  when  twinkling  stars 
Are  glimmering  thro'  the  vast  profound. 

But  there's  a  smile,  'tis  sweeter  still, 

'Tis  one  far  dearer  to  my  soul; 
It  is  a  smile  which  angels  might 

Upon  their  brightest  list  enroll. 

It  is  the  smile  of  innocence, 

Of  sleeping  infancy's  light  dream; 
Like  lightning  on  a  summer's  eve, 

It  sheds  a  soft  and  pensive  gleam. 

It  dances  round  the  dimpled  cheek, 

And  tells  of  happiness  within; 
It  smiles  what  it  can  never  speak, 

A  human  heart  devoid  of  sin. 

»  s 

The  three  last  most  beautiful  stanzas  must  have 
been  inspired  by  the  sleeping  infant  on  her  lap,  and 
they  seem  to  have  reflected  her  soul's  image;  as  we 
have  seen  the  little  inland  lake  catch  and  give  back 
the  marvellous  beauty  of  the  sunset  clouds.  "  Soon 
after  her  marriage,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "her  sister, 
Mrs.  Townsend,  removed  to  Canada,  and  many  cir 
cumstances  combined  to  interrupt  her  literary  pursuits, 
and  call  forth,  not  only  the  energies  of  her  mind,  but 
to  develope  the  filial  devotion  and  total  sacrifice  of  all 
selfish  feelings,  which  gave  a  new  and  elevated  tone 
to  her  character,  and  showed  us  that  there  was  no 
gratification  either  in  pursuance  of  mental  improve 
ment,  or  personal  ease,  but  must  bend  to  her  high 
standard  of  filial  duty."  Her  mother  was  very  ill, 
and,  to  add  to  the  calamity,  her  monthly  nurse  was 


BIOGRAPHY.  55 

taken  sick,  and  left  her — the  infant,  too,  was  ill.  Lu- 
cretia  sustained  her  multiplied  cares  with  firmness  and 
efficiency,  the  conviction  that  she  was  doing  her  duty 
gave  her  strength  almost  preternatural.  I  shall  again 
quote  her  mother's  words,  for  I  fear  to  enfeeble  by 
any  version  of  my  own,  the  beautiful  example  of  this 
conscientious  little  being.  "Lucretia  astonished  us 
all;  she  took  her  station  in  my  sick  room,  and  devoted 
herself  wholly  to  the  mother  and  the  child;  and  when 
my  recovery  became  doubtful,  instead  of  resigning 
herself  to  grief,  her  exertions  were  redoubled,  not  only 
for  the  comfort  of  the  sick,  but  she  was  an  angel  of  con 
solation  to  her  afflicted  father;  we  were  amazed  at  the 
exertions  she  made,  and  the  fatigue  she  endured;  for 
with  nerves  so  weak,  a  constitution  so  delicate,  and  a 
sensibility  so  exquisite,  we  trembled  lest  she  should 
sink  with  anxiety  and  fatigue.  Until  it  ceased  to  be 
necessary,  she  performed  not  only  the  duty  of  a  nurse, 
but  acted  as  superintendant  of  the  household."  When 
her  mother  became  convalescent,  Lucretia  continued 
her  attentions  to  domestic  affairs:  "  She  did  not  so 
much  yield  to  her  ruling  passion  as  to  look  into  a  book, 
or  take  up  a  pen  (says  her  mother),  lest  she  should 
again  become  so  absorbed  in  them  as  to  neglect  to 
perform  those  little  offices  which  a  feeble,  affectionate 
mother  had  a  right  to  claim  at  her  hands.  As  was  to 
be  expected  from  the  intimate  union  of  soul  and  body, 
when  her  mind  was  starved,  it  became  dejected  and 
her  body  weak;  and,  in  spite  of  her  filial  efforts,  her 
mother  detected  tears  on  her  cheeks,  was  alarmed  by 
her  excessive  paleness,  and  expressed  her  apprehen- 


56  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

sions  that  she  was  ill.  "  No,  mamma,"  she  replied, 
"  not  ill,  only  out  of  spirits."  Her  mother  then  re 
marked,  that  of  late,  she  never  read  or  wrote.  She 
burst  into  tears, — a  full  explanation  followed,  and  the 
generous  mother  succeeded  in  convincing  her  child 
that  she  had  been  misguided  in  the  course  she  had 
adopted,  that  the  strongest  wish  of  her  heart  was  to 
advance  her  in  her  literary  career,  and  for  this  she 
would  make  every  exertion  in  her  power;  at  the 
same  time  she  very  judiciously  advised  her  to  inter 
sperse  her  literary  pursuits  with  those  domestic  occu 
pations  so  essential  to  prepare  every  woman  in  our 
land  for  a  housewife,  her  probable  destiny. 

This  conversation  had  a  most  happy  effect;  the 
stream  flowed  again  in  its  natural  channel,  and  Lu- 
cretia  became  cheerful,  read  and  wrote,  and  practised 
drawing.  She  had  a  decided  taste  for  drawing,  and 
excelled  in  it.  She  sung  over  her  work,  and  in  every 
way  manifested  the  healthy  condition  that  results 
from  a  wise  obedience  to  the  laws  of  nature. 

We  trust  there  are  thousands  of  young  ladies  in  our 
land,  who  at  the  call  of  filial  duty  would  cheerfully 
perform  domestic  labour;  but  if  there  are  any  who 
would  make  a  strong  love  for  more  elevated  and  re 
fined  pursuits,  an  excuse  for  neglecting  these  coarser 
duties,  we  would  commend  them  to  the  example  of 
this  conscientious  child.  She,  if  any  could,  might 
have  pleaded  her  genius,  or  her  delicate  health,  or 
her  mother's  most  tender  indulgence,  for  a  failure, 
that  in  her  would  have  hardly  seemed  to  us  a  fault. 

During  this  summer,  she  went  to  Canada  with  her 


BIOGRAPHY.  57 

mother,  where  she  revelled  in  an  unexplored  library, 
and  enjoyed  most  heartily  the  social  pleasures  at  her 
sister's.  They  frequently  had  a  family  concert  of 
music  in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Townsend  (her  sister) 
accompanied  the  instruments  with  her  fine  voice. 
Lucretia  was  often  moved  by  the  music,  and  particu 
larly  by  her  favourite  song,  Moore's  "  Farewell  to  my 
Harp;"  this  she  would  have  sung  to  her  at  twilight, 
when  it  would  excite  a  shivering  through  her  whole 
frame.  On  one  occasion,  she  became  cold  and  pale, 
and  was  near  fainting,  and  afterwards  poured  her  ex 
cited  feelings  forth  in  the  following  address: — 

TO  MY  SISTER. 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  Heaven; 

When  not  a  murmur,  nor  a  sound 
To  fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  Heaven  is  bright, 

And  looks  around  with  golden  eye ; 
When  nature,  softened  by  her  light, 

Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie; 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give; 

Oh,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 

And  hovering,  trembles,  half  afraid, 
Oh  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 

Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 


58  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

'Twere  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 

Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day; 
Notes  borne  by  angel's  purest  wing, 

And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Shouldst  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love! 

We  insert  here  a  striking  circumstance  that  occurred 
during  a  visit  to  her  sister  the  following  year.  She 
was  at  that  time  employed  in  writing  her  longest 
published  poem,  "Amir  Khan."  Immediately  after 
breakfast  she  went  to  walk,  and  not  returning  to  din 
ner,  nor  even  when  the  evening  approached,  Mr. 
Townsend  set  forth  in  search  of  her.  He  met  her, 
and  as  her  eye  encountered  his,  she  smiled  and 
blushed,  as  if  she  felt  conscious  of  having  been  a  little 
ridiculous.  She  said  she  had  called  on  a  friend,  and, 
having  found  her  absent,  had  gone  to  her  library, 
where  she  had  been  examining  some  volumes  of  an 
Encyclopedia  to  aid  her,  we  believe,  in  the  oriental 
story  she  was  employed  upon.  She  forgot  her  dinner 
and  her  tea,  and  had  remained  reading,  standing,  and 
with  her  hat  on,  till  the  disappearance  of  daylight 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  In  the  interval  between 
her  visits,  she  wrote  several  letters  to  her  friends, 
which  are  chiefly  interesting  from  the  indications  they 
afford  of  her  social  and  affectionate  spirit.  We  sub 
join  a  few  extracts.  She  had  returned  to  Pittsburgh 
amid  the  bustle  of  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration. 


BIOGRAPHY.  59 

"  We  found,"  she  says,  "  our  brother  Yankees  had 
turned  out  well  to  celebrate  the  Fourth.  The  wharf 
from  the  hill  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  even  the 
rafts  and  sloops,  were  black  with  the  crowd.  If  some 
very  good  genius,  who  presided  over  my  destiny  at 
that  time,  had  not  spread  its  protecting  pinions  around 
me,  like  everything  else  in  my  possession,  I  should 
have  lost  even  my  precious  self.  What  a  truly  la 
mentable  accident  it  would  have  been  just  at  that 
moment!  We  took  a  carriage,  and  were  extricating 

ourselves  from  the  crowd,  when  Mr.  ,  who 

had  pressed  himself  through,  came  to  shake  hands 

and  bid  good-bye.     He  is  now  on  his  way  to . 

Well!  here  is  health,  happiness,  and  a  bushel  of  love 
to  all  married  people!  Is  it  possible,  you  ask,  that 
sister  Lue  could  ever  have  permitted  such  a  toast  to 
pass  her  lips?  We  arrived  safely  at  our  good  old 
home,  and  found  everything  as  we  left  it.  The  chim 
ney  swallows  had  taken  up  their  residence  in  the 
chimney,  and  rattled  the  soot  from  their  sable  habita 
tions  over  the  hearth  and  carpet.  It  looked  like  deso 
lation  indeed.  The  grass  is  high  in  the  yard;  the 
wild-roses,  double-roses,  and  sweet-briars  are  in  full 
bloom,  and,  take  it  all  in  all,  the  spot  looks  much  as 
the  garden  of  Eden  did  after  the  expulsion  of  Adam 
and  Eve.  We  had  just  done  tea  when  M.  came  in 
and  sat  an  hour  or  two.  What  in  the  name  of  won 
der  could  he  have  found  to  talk  about  all  that  time? 
Something,  dear  sister,  you  would  not  have  thought 
of;  something  of  so  little  consequence  that  the  time  he 
spent  glided  swiftly,  almost  unnoticed.  I  had  him  all 


60  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

to  myself,  tete-a-tete.  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  tell 
you  I  had  yesterday  a  present  of  a  most  beautiful 
bouquet:  I  wore  it  to  church  in  the  afternoon;  but  it 
has  withered  and  faded — 

"  Withered  like  the  world's  treasures, 
Faded  like  the  world's  pleasures." 

From  the  sort  of  mystical  girl-like  allusions  in  the 
above  extracts,  to  persons  whose  initials  only  are  given, 
to  bouquets  and  tete-^-tetes,  we  infer  that  she  thus  early 
had  declared  lovers  even  at  this  age,  for  she  was  not 
yet  sixteen:  her  mother  says  she  had  resolved  never 
to  marry.  "  Her  reasons,"  continues  her  mother,  "  for 
this  decision  were  that  her  peculiar  habits,  her  entire 
devotion  to  books,  and  scribbling  (as  she  called  it), 
unfitted  her  for  the  care  of  a  family;  she  could  not  do 
justice  to  husband  or  children,  while  her  whole  soul 
was  absorbed  in  literary  pursuits;  she  was  not  willing 
to  resign  them  for  any  man,  therefore  she  had  formed 
the  resolution  to  lead  a  single  life;"  a  resolution  that 
would  have  lasted  probably  till  she  had  passed  under 
the  dominion  of  a  stronger  passion  than  her  love  for 
the  muses.  With  affections  like  hers,  and  a  most  lovely 
person  and  attractive  manners,  her  resolution  would 
scarcely  have  enabled  her  to  escape  the  common  des 
tiny  of  her  sex. — The  following  is  an  extract  from  a 
letter  written  after  participating  in  several  gay  parties; 
"  Indeed  my  dear  brother,  I  have  turned  round  like  a 
top,  for  the  last  two  or  three  weeks,  and  am  glad  to 
seat  myself  once  more  in  my  favourite  corner.  How, 


BIOGRAPHY.  61 

think  you,  should  I  stand  it  to  be  whirled  in  the  giddy 
round  of  dissipation?  I  came  home  from  the  blaze  of 
light,  from  the  laugh  of  mirth,  the  smile  of  complai 
sance,  and  seeming  happiness,  and  the  vision  passes 
from  my  mind  like  the  brilliant,  but  transitory  hues  of 
the  rainbow;  and  I  think  with  regret  on  the  many, 
very  many  happy  hours  I  have  passed  with  you  and 
Anne.  Oh!  I  do  want  to  see  you,  indeed  I  do, — you 
think  me  wild,  thoughtless,and  perhaps  unfeeling;  but 
I  assure  I  can  be  sober,  I  sometimes  think,  and  I  can 
and  do  feel. — Why  have  you  not  written?  not  one 
word  in  almost  three  weeks!  Dear  brother  and  sister, 
I  must  write;  but  dear  Anne,  I  am  now  doomed  to 
dim  your  eye  and  cloud  your  brow,  for  I  know  that 
what  I  have  to  communicate  will  surprise  and  distress 
you.  Our  dear  cousin  John  is  dead!  Oh!  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  much,  how  deeply  he  is  lamented;  you 
know  him, and  like  everyone  else  who  did, you  loved 
him.  Poor  Eliza!  how  my  heart  aches  for  her!  her 
father,  her  mother,  her  brother, all  gone;  almost  the  last, 
the  dearest  tie  is  broken  which  bound  her  to  life;  what 
a  vacancy  must  there  be  in  her  heart!  how  fatal  would 
it  prove  to  almost  every  hope  in  life,  were  we  allowed 
even  a  momentary  glimpse  of  futurity !  for  often  half 
the  enjoyments  of  life  consist  in  the  anticipation  of 
pleasures,  which  may  never  be  ours."  Soon  after  this 
Lucretia  witnessed  the  death  of  a  beloved  young 
friend;  it  was  the  first  death  she  had  seen,  and  it  had 
its  natural  effect  on  a  reflecting  and  sensitive  mind. 
Her  thoughts  wandered  through  eternity  by  the  light 
of  religion,  the  only  light  that  penetrates  beyond  the 


62  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

death-bed. — She  wrote  many  religions  pieces;  but  as 
I  hope  another  volume  of  her  poems  will  be  given  to 
the  public,  I  have  merely  selected  the  following: — 

Oh,  that  .the  eagle's  wing  were  mine, 

I'd  soar  above  the  dreary  earth; 
I'd  spread  my  wings^  and  rise  to  join 

The  immortal  fountain  of  my  birth. 

For  what  is  joy?  how  soon  it  fades, 

The  childish  vision  of  an  hour  ! 
Though  warm  and  brilliant  are  its  shades, 

'Tis  but  a  frail  and  fading  flower. 

And  what  is  hope1?  it  is  a  light 

Which  leads  us  on  deluding  ever, 
Till  lost  amid  the  shades  of  night 

We  sink  and  then  it  flies  forever! 

And  what  is  love?  it  is  a  dream, 

A  brilliant  fable  framed  by  youth; 
A  bubble  dancing  on  life's  stream, 

And  sinking  'neath  the  eye  of  truth. 

And  what  are  honour,  glory,  fame, 

But  death's  dark  watchwords  to  the  grave; 

The  victim  dies,  and  lo!  his  name 
Is  stamp'd  in  life's  red  rolling  wave. 

And  what  are  all  the  joys  of  life, 

But  vanity,  and  toil,  and  woe; 
What  but  a  bitter  cup  of  grief, 

With  dregs  of  sin  and  death  below. 

This  world  is  but  the  first  death  gate 
Unfolded  to  the  wakening  soul; 


BIOGRAPHY.  63 

But  death  unerring  led  by  fate, 
Shall  Heaven's  bright  portals  backward  roll. 

Then  shall  this  unchained  spirit  fly 

On  to  the  God  who  gave  it  life; 
Rejoicing  as  it  soars  on  high, 

Released  from  danger,  doubt,  and  strife. 

There  will  it  pour  its  anthems  forth, 

Bending  before  its  maker's  throne; 
The  great  I  AM,  who  gave  it  birth, 

The  Almighty  God,  the  dread  unknown. 

During  this  winter  her  application  to  her  books  was 
so  unremitting,  that  her  parents  again  became  alarmed 
for  her  health,  and  persuaded  her  occasionally  to  join 
in  the  amusements  of  Pittsburgh.  She  came  home 
one  night  at  twelve  o'clock  from  a  ball,  and  after  giv 
ing  a  most  lively  account  of  all  she  had  seen  and  heard 
to  her  mother,  she  quietly  seated  herself  at  the  table, 
and  wrote  her  ''Reflections  after  Leaving  a  Ball-room." 
Her  spirit,  though  it  glided  with  kind  sympathies  into 
the  common  pleasures  of  youth,  never  seemed  to  re 
lax  its  tie  to  the  spiritual  world.  During  the  summer 
of  1824,  Captain  Partridge  visited  Pittsburgh,  with 
his  soldier  scholars. 

Military  display  had  its  usual  exciting  effect  on  Miss 
Davidson's  imagination,  and  she  addressed  "  to  the 
Vt.  Cadets"  the  following  spirited  stanzas,  which 
might  have  come  from,  the  martial  Clorinda: — 

Pass  on!  for  the  bright  torch  of  glory  is  beaming; 

Go,  wreathe  round  your  brows  the  green  laurels  of  fame, 


64  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Around  you  a  halo  is  brilliantly  streaming, 
And  history  lingers  to  write  down  each  name. 

Yes!  ye  are  the  pillars  of  liberty's  throne; 

When  around  you  the  banner  of  glory  shall  wave, 

America  proudly  shall  claim  you  her  own; 

And  freedom  and  honour  shall  pause  o'er  each  grave! 

A  watch-fire  of  glory,  a  beacon  of  light, 
Shall  guide  you  to  Honour,  shall  point  you  to  Fame; 
The  heart  that  shrinks  back,  be  it  buried  in  night, 
And  withered  with  dim  tears  of  sorrow  and  shame! 

Though  death  should  await  you,  'twere  glorious  to  die 
With  the  glow  of  pure  honour  still  warm  on  the  brow; 
With  a  light  sparkling  brightly  around  the  dim  eye, 
Like  the  smile  of  a  spirit  still  ling'ring  below. 

Pass  on,  and  when  war,  in  his  strength  shall  arise, 
Rush  on  to  the  conflict  and  conquer  or  die; 
Let  the  clash  of  your  arms  proudly  roll  to  the  skies: 
Be  blest  if  victorious — and  cursed  if  you  fly! 


It  was  about  this  time  that  she  finished  "  Amir 
Khan,"  and  began  a  tale  of  some  length  which  she 
entitled  the  "Recluse  of  the  Saranac."  "Amir 
Khan"  has  long  been  before  the  public,  but  we 
think  it  has  suffered  from  a  general  and  very  natural 
distrust  of  precocious  genius.  The  versification  is 
graceful,  the  story  beautifully  developed,  and  the 
orientalism  well  sustained.  We  think  it  would 
not  have  done  discredit  to  our  best  popular  poets  in 
the  meridian  of  their  fame:  as  the  productions  of  a 
"girl  of  fifteen  it  seems  prodigious. — On  her  mother 


BIOGRAPHY.  65 

discovering  and  reading  a  part  of  her  romance,  Lu- 
cretia  manifested  her  usual  shrinkings,  and  with  many 
tears  exacted  a  promise  that  she  would  not  again  look 
at  it  till  it  was  finished;  she  never  again  saw  it  till 
after  her  daughter's  death.  Lucretia  had  a  most 
whimsical  fancy  for  cutting  sheets  of  paper  into  nar 
row  strips,  sewing  them  together  and  writing  on  both 
sides;  and  once  playfully  boasting  to  her  mother  of 
having  written  some  yards,  she  produced  a  roll,  and 
forbidding  her  mother's  approach,  she  measured  off 
twenty  yards!  She  often  expressed  a  wish  to  spend 
one  fortnight  alone,  even  to  the  exclusion  of  her  little 
pet-sister;  and  Mrs.  Davidson,  eager  to  afford  her 
every  gratification  in  her  power,  had  a  room  prepared 
for  her  recess,  her  dinner  was  sent  up  to  her,  she 
declined  coming  down  to  tea,  and  her  mother,  on 
going  to  her  apartment  found  her  writing, — her  plate 
untouched. 

Some  secret  joy  it  was  natural  her  mother  should 
feel  at  this  devotion  to  intellectual  pleasure;  but  her 
good  sense  or  her  maternal  anxiety  got  the  better  of 
it,  and  she  persuaded  Lucretia  to  consent  to  the  inter 
ruption  of  a  daily  walk.  It  was  about  this  period 
that  she  became  acquainted  with  the  gentleman  who 
was  destined  to  influence  the  brief  space  of  life  that 
remained  to  her.  The  late  Hon.  Moss  Kent,  with 
whom  her  mother  had  been  acquainted  for  many 
years,  previous  to  her  marriage,  had  often  been  a 
guest  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Davidson,  but  it  had  so.  hap 
pened  that  he  had  never  met  Lucretia  since  her  early 
childhood.  Struck  with  some  little  effusions  which 
5 


66  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

were  in  the  possession  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  P ,  he 

went  immediately  to  see  Mrs.  Davidson  to  ask  the 
privilege  of  reading  some  of  her  last  productions. 
On  his  way  to  the  house  he  met  Lucretia;  he  had 
been  interested  by  the  reputation  of  her  genius  and 
modesty;  no  wonder  that  the  beautiful  form,  in  which 
it  was  enshrined  should  have  called  this  interest  into 
sudden  and  effective  action.  Miss  Davidson  was  just 
sixteen — her  complexion  was  the  most  beautiful  bru 
nette,  clear  and  brilliant,  of  that  warm  tint  that  seems 
to  belong  to  lands  of  the  sun  rather  than  to  our 
chilled  regions,  indeed  her  whole  organization,  mental, 
as  well  as  physical,  her  deep  and  quick  sensibility, 
her  early  development,  were  characteristics  of  a 
warmer  clime  than  ours;  her  stature  was  of  the  mid 
dle  height,  her  form  slight  and  symmetrical,  her  hair 
profuse,  dark  and  curling,  her  mouth  and  nose  regu 
lar,  and  as  beautiful  as  if  they  had  been  chiselled  by 
an  inspired  artist;  and  through  this  fitting  medium, 
beamed  her  angelic  spirit.  "  Mr.  Kent  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  inherent  in  his  nature,  after  examining 
her  common-place  book,  resolved,  if  he  could  induce 
her  parents  to  resign  Lucretia  to  his  care,  to  afford 
her  every  facility  for  improvement  that  could  be  ob 
tained  in  the  country — and  in  short  he  proposed  to 
adopt  her  as  his  own  child.  Her  parents  took  the 
subject  into  consideration,  and  complied  so  far  with 
his  benevolent  wishes,  as  to  permit  him.  to  take  an 
active  interest  in  her  education,  deferring  to  future 
consideration,  the  question  of  his  adopting  her.  Had 
she  lived,  they  would,  no  doubt,  have  consented  to 


BIOGRAPHY.  67 

his  plan.  It  was,  after  some  deliberation,  decided  to 
send  her  a  few  months  to  the  Troy  Seminary,  and  on 
the  same  evening  she  wrote  the  following  letter  to 
her  brother  and  sister: — 

"What  think  you?  'ere  another  moon  shall  fill 
round  as  my  shield/  I  shall  be  at  Mrs.  Willard's  se 
minary;  in  a  fortnight  I  shall  probably  have  left 
Plattsburgh,  not  to  return  at  least  until  the  expiration 
of  six  months.  Oh!  I  am  so  delighted,  so  happy!  1 
shall  scarcely  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  for  a  month  to  come. 
You  and  Anne  must  both  write  to  rne  often,  and  you 
must  not  laugh  when  you  think  of  poor  Lucy  in  the 
far-famed  city  of  Troy,  dropping  handkerchiefs,  keys, 
gloves,  &c.;  in  short,  something  of  everything  I  have. 
It  is  well  if  you  can  read  what  I  have  written,  for 
papa  and  mamma  are  talking,  and  my  head  whirls 
like  a  top.  Oh!  how  my  poor  head  aches!  Such  a 
surprise  as  I  have  had !" 

On  the  24th  of  November,  1824,  she  left  home, 
health  on  her  cheek  and  in  her  bosom,  and  flushed 
with  the  most  ardent  expectations  of  getting  rapidly 
forward  in  the  career  her  desires  were  fixed  upon. 
But  even  at  this  moment  her  fond  devotion  to  her 
mother  was  beautifully  expressed  in  some  stanzas, 
which  she  left  where  they  would  meet  her  eye  as  soon 
as  the  parting  tears  were  wiped  away.  These  stanzas 
are  already  published,  and  I  shall  only  quote  two 
from  them,  striking  for  their  tenderness  and  truth. 

"To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simple  song 

Which  nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day; 


68  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 
Whose  heart,  indulgent,  will  not  spurn  my  lay! 

"  Oh  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life 

What  bosom  would  have  throbbed  like  thine  for  me! 
Who  would  have  smiled  responsive?  Who  in  grief 

'  Would  e'er  have  felt,  and  feeling,  grieved  like  thee!"' 

The  following  extracts  from  her  letters,  which  were 
always  filled  with  yearnings  for  home,  will  show  that 
her  affections  were  the  stronghold  of  her  nature. 

"  Troy  Seminary,  December  6th,  1824.  Here  I  am 
at  last;  and  what  a  naughty  girl  I  was,  when  I  was 
at  Aunt  Schuyler's,  that  I  did  not  write  you  every 
thing!  But  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  topsyturvy,  and 
so  I  am  now;  but  in  despite  of  calls  from  the  young 
ladies,  and  of  a  hundred  new  faces,  and  new  names 
which  are  constantly  ringing  in  my  ears,  I  have  set 
myself  down,  and  will  not  rise  until  I  have  written  an 
account  of  everything  to  my  dear  mother.  I  am  con 
tented;  yet,  notwithstanding,  I  have  once  or  twice 
turned  a  wishful  glance  towards  my  dear-loved  home. 
Amidst  all  the  parade  of  wealth,  in  the  splendid  apart 
ments  of  luxury,  I  can  assure  you,  my  dearest  mother, 
that  I  had  rather  be  with  you  in  our  own  lowly  home, 
than  in  the  midst  of  all  this  ceremony." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  like  Mrs.  Willard.  '  And  so  this 
is  my  girl,  Mrs.  Schuyler?'  said  she,  and  took  me 
affectionately  by  the  hand.  Oh,  I  want  to  see  you  so 
much!  But  I  must  not  think  of  it  now.  I  must  learn 
as  fast  as  I  can,  and  think  only  of  my  studies.  Dear, 
dear  little  Margaret!  kiss  her  and  the  little  boys  for 


BIOGRAPHY.  69 

me.  How  is  dear  father  getting  on  in  this  rattling 
world?" 

The  letters  that  followed  were  tinged  with  melan 
choly  from  her  "  bosom's  depth,"  and  her  mother  has 
withheld  them.  In  a  subsequent  one  she  says,  "  I 
have  written  two  long  letters;  but  I  wrote  when  I 
was  ill,  and  they  savor  too  much  of  sadness.  I  feel  a 
little  better  now,  and  have  again  commenced  my 
studies.  Mr.  K.  called  here  to-day.  Oh,  he  is  very 
good!  He  stayed  some  time,  and  brought  a  great 
many  books;  but  I  fear  I  shall  have  little  time  to  read 
aught  but  what  appertains  to  my  studies.  I  am  con 
sulting  Kames's  Elements  of  Criticism,  studying 
French,  attending  to  Geological  lectures,  composition, 
reading,  paying  some  little  attention  to  painting,  and 
learning  to  dance." 

A  subsequent  letter  indicated  great  unhappinessand 
debility,  and  awakened  her  mother's  apprehensions. 
The  next  was  written  more  cheerfully.  "  As  I  fly  to 
you,"  she  says,  "for  consolation  in  all  my  sorrows, so 
I  turn  to  you,  my  dear  mother,  to  participate  in  all  my 
joys.  The  clouds  that  enveloped  my  mind  have  dis 
persed,  and  I  turn  to  you  with  a  far  lighter  heart  than 
when  I  last  wrote.  The  ever  kind  Mr.  K.  called  yes 
terday."  She  then  describes  the  paternal  interest  he 
took  in  her  health  and  happiness,  expresses  a  trem 
bling  apprehension  lest  he  should  be  disappointed  in 
the  amount  of  her  improvement,  and  laments  the  loss 
of  time  from  her  frequent  indispositions.  "  How,  my 
dear  mother,"  she  says,  "  shall  I  express  my  gratitude 
to  my  kind,  my  excellent  friend?  What  is  felt  as 


70  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

deeply  as  I  feel  this  obligation,  cannot  be  expressed; 
but  I  can  feel,  and  do  feel."  It  must  be  remembered 
that  these  were  not  formal  and  obligatory  letters  to 
her  guardian,  but  the  spontaneous  overflowing  of  her 
heart  in  her  private  correspondence  with  her  mother. 

We  now  come  to  a  topic,  to  which  we  would  ask 
the  particular  attention  of  our  readers.  Owing  to 
many  causes,  but  chiefly  we  believe,  to  the  demand 
for  operatives  in  every  department  of  society  in  our 
country,  the  work  of  school  education  is  crowded  into 
a  very  few  years.  The  studies,  instead  of  being  select 
ed,  spread  through  the  whole  circle  of  sciences.  The 
school  period  is  the  period  of  the  young  animal's  phy 
sical  growth  and  development;  the  period  when  the 
demands  of  the  physical  nature  are  strongest,  and  the 
mental  weakest.  Then  our  young  men  are  immured 
in  colleges,  law  schools,  divinity  schools,  &c.,  and  our 
young  ladies  in  boarding  schools,  where,  even  in  the 
best  regulated,  the  provisions  for  exercise  in  the  open 
air  are  very  insufficient.  In  the  city  schools,  we  are 
aware,  that  the  difficulties  to  be  overcome  to  achieve 
this  great  object  are  nearly  insuperable,  we  believe 
quite  so;  and,  if  they  are  so,  should  not  these  estab 
lishments  be  placed  in  the  country?  Are  not  health 
and  physical  vigour  the  basis  of  mental  health  and 
vigour,  of  usefulness  and  happiness?  What  a  pro 
portion  of  the  miseries  of  the  more  favoured  classes 
of  our  females  result  from  their  invalidism!  What 
feebleness  of  purpose,  weakness  of  execution,  dejec 
tion,  fretfulness,  mental  and  moral  imbecility! 

The  case  would  not  be  so  bad,  if  the  misery  ended 


BIOGRAPHY.  71 

with  one  generation,  with  the  mother  cut  off  in  the 
midst  of  her  days,  or  dragging  on  to  three-score  and 
ten,  her  unenjoyed  and  profitless  existence.  But  that 
is  not  so:  there  are  hosts  of  living  witnesses  in  the 
sickly,  pale,  drooping  children  of  our  nurseries.  There 
are  multitudes  who  tell  us,  that  our  climate  will  not 
permit  a  delicate  female  to  exercise  in  the  open  air. 
If  the  climate  is  bad,  so  much  the  more  important  is 
it  to  acquire  strength  to  resist  it.  Besides,  if  out-of- 
door  exercise  is  not  at  all  times  attractive,  we  know  it 
is  not  impossible.  We  know  delicately  bred  females, 
who  during  some  of  our  hardest  winters,  have  not  for 
more  than  a  day  or  two  lost  their  exercise  abroad. 
When,  in  addition  to  the  privation  of  pleasurable  ex 
ercise,  (for  the  walk  in  funeral  procession,  attended 
by  martinets,  and  skewered  by  city  decorums,  can 
scarcely  be  called  pleasurable,}  the  school  girl  is  con 
fined  to  her  tasks  from  eight  to  ten  hours  in  rooms 
sometimes  too  cold,  sometimes  too  hot,  where  her 
fellow  sufferers  are  en  masse,  can  we  wonder  at  the 
result? 

How  far  this  evil  may  have  operated  in  shortening 
the  life  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  we  cannot  say;  but  we 
cannot  but  think,  that  her  devoted  and  watchful  friend 
erred  in  sending  a  creature  so  delicate  in  her  constitu 
tion  to  any  boarding  school,  even  the  best  conducted 
institution.  We  certainly  do  not  mean  to  express  or 
imply  any  censure  of  the  "  Troy  Seminary."  We 
have  no  personal  knowledge  of  it;  but  we  believe  no 
similar  institution  has  more  the  confidence  of  the  com- 


72  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

munity ;  and,  as  it  has  been  now  many  years  established 
and  tried,  it  is  fair  to  believe  it  deserves  it. 

An  arrangement  of  these  boarding  schools,  that 
bore  very  hard  upon  Miss  Davidson,  was  the  public 
examination.*  These  examinations  are  appalling  to 
a  sensitive  mind.  Could  they  be  proved  to  be  of  man 
ifest  advantage  to  the  scolarship  of  the  young  ladies, 
we  should  doubt  their  utility  on  the  whole.  But  even 
where  they  are  conducted  with  perfect  fairness,  are 
they  a  test  of  scholarship?  Do  not  the  bold  outface, 
and  the  indolent  evade  them?  The  studious  are  stimu 
lated,  and  the  sensitive  and  shrinking,  if  stimulated, 
are  appalled  and  disconcerted  by  them,  so  that  the 
condiment  affects  those  only,  whose  appetites  are 
already  too  keen. 

But  the  experience  of  Miss  Davidson  is  more  per 
suasive  than  any  reasoning  of  ours,  and  we  shall  give 
it  in  her  own  language,  in  occasional  extracts  from 
her  letters  to  her  mother. 

"We  now  begin  to  dread  the  examination.  Oh, 
horrible!  seven  weeks,  and  I  shall  be  posted  up  before 

*  I  did  not  intend  remarking  upon  the  influence  these  exami 
nations  have  on  the  scholar's  progress;  but  I  cannot  forbear 
quoting  the  following  pertinent  passage  from  President  Hopkins' 
Inaugural  Address.  "  There  are  not  wanting  schools  in  this 
country,  in  which  the  real  interests  and  progress  of  the  pupils 
are  sacrificed  to  their  appearance  at  examination.  But  the  vanity 
of  parents  must  be  flattered,  and  the  memory  is  overburdened, 
and  studies  are  forced  on  prematurely,  and  a  system  of  infant- 
school  instruction  is  carried  forward  intomaturer  life." 


BIOGRAPHY.  73 

all  Troy,  all  the  students  from  Schenectady,  and  per 
haps  five  hundred  others.  What  shall  I  do?" 

"  I  have  just  received  a  note  from  Mr.  K.  in  which 
he  speaks  of  your  having  written  to  him  of  my  illness. 
I  was  indeed  ill,  and  very  ill  for  several  days,  and  in 
my  deepest  dejection  wrote  to  you;  but  do  not,  my 
dearest  mother,  be  alarmed  about  me.  My  appetite 
is  not  perfectly  good,  but  quite  as  well  as  when  I  was 
at  home.  The  letter  was  just  such  a  one  as  was 
calculated  to  soothe  my  feelings,  and  set  me  completely 
at  rest.  He  expressed  a  wish  that  my  stay  here 
should  be  prolonged.  What  think  you,  mother?  I 
should  be  delighted  by  such  an  arrangement.  This 
place  really  seems  quite  like  home  to  me,  though  not 
my  own  dear  home.  I  like  Mrs.  Willard,  I  love  the 
girls,  and  I  have  the  vanity  to  think  I  am  not  actually 
disagreeable  to  them." 

We  come  now  to  another  expression  (partly  serious, 
and  partly  bantering,  for  she  seems  to  have  uniformly 
respected  her  instructress)  of  her  terrors  of  "examina 
tion." 

"  We  are  all  engaged,  heart  and  hand,  preparing 
for  this  awful  examination.  Oh,  how  I  dread  it!  But 
there  is  no  retreat.  I  must  stand  firm  to  my  post,  or 
experience  all  the  anger,  vengeance  and  punishments, 
which  will  in  case  of  delinquency  or  flight,  be  exer 
cised  with  the  most  unforgiving  acrimony.  We  are 
in  such  cases  excommunicated,  henceforth  and  for 
ever,  under  the  awful  ban  of  holy  Seminary;  and  the 
evil  eye  of  false  report  is  upon  us.  Oh  mamma,  I  do 
though,  jesting  apart,  dread  this  examination;  but 


74  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

nothing  short  of  real  and  absolute  sickness  can  excuse 
a  scholar  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Willard.  Even  that 
will  not  do  it  to  the  Trojan  world  around  us;  for  if  a 
young  lady  is  ill  at  examination,  they  say  with  a  sneer, 
"  Oh,  she  is  ill  of  an  examination  fever!"  Thus  you 
see,  mamma,  we  have  no  mercy  either  from  friends 
or  foes.  We  must '  do  or  die.'  Tell  Morris  he  must 
write  to  me.  Kiss  dear,  dear  little  Margaret  for  me, 
and  don't  let  her  forget  poor  sister  Luly,  and  tell  all 
who  inquire  for  me  that  I  am  well,  but  in  awful  dread 
of  a  great  examination." 

The  following  extract  is  from  a  letter  to  her  friends, 
who  had  written  under  the  impression,  that  all  letters 
received  by  the  young  ladies  were,  of  course,  read  by 
some  one  of  the  officers  of  the  institution. 

"Lo!  just  as  I  was  descending  from  the  third  story, 
(for  you  must  know  I  hold  my  head  high,)  your  letter 
was  put  into  my  hands.  Poor  little  wanderer!  I  really 
felt  a  sisterly  compassion  for  the  poor  little  folded  pa 
per.  I  kissed  it  for  the  sake  of  those  who  sent  it  forth 
into  the  wide  world,  and  put  it  into  my  bosom.  But 
oh,  when  I  read  it!  Now,  Anne,  I  will  tell  you  the 
truth;  it  was  cold,  perhaps  it  was  written  on  one  of 
your  cold  Canada  days,  or  perchance  it  lost  a  little  heat 
on  the  way.  It  did  not  seem  to  come  from  the  very 
heart  of  hearts;  it  looked  as  though  it  were  writ 
ten  "  to  a  young  lady  at  the  Troy  Seminary,"  not 
to  your  dear,  dear,  dear  sister  Luly.  Mr.  K.  has  thus 
far  been  a  father  to  me,  and  I  thank  him;  but  I  will 
not  mock  my  feelings  by  attempting  to  say  how  much 
I  thank  him." 


BIOGRAPHY.  75 

"My  dear  mother!  oh  how  I  wish  I  could  lay  my 
head  upon  your  bosom!  I  hope  you  do  not  keep  my 
letters,  for  I  certainly  have  burned  all  yours,*  and  I 
stood  like  a  little  fool  and  wept  over  their  ashes,  and 
when  I  saw  the  last  one  gone,  I  felt  as  though  I  had 
parted  with  my  last  friend."  Then,  after  expressing 
an  earnest  wish  that  her  mother  would  destroy  her  let 
ters,  she  says,  "  They  have  no  connection.  When  I 
write,  everything  comes  crowding  upon  me  at  once; 
my  pen  moves  too  slow  for  my  brain  and  my  heart, 
and  I  feel  vexed  at  myself,  and  tumble  in  everything 
together,  and  a  choice  medley  you  have  of  it." 

"  I  attended  Mr.  Bull's  public  (assembly)  last  night, 
and  had  a  delightful  evening;  but  now  for  something 
of  more  importance — Ex-am-i-na-tion!  I  had  just 
begun  to  be  engaged,  heart  and  hand,  preparing  for  it, 
when  by  some  means,  I  took  a  violent  cold.  I  was 
unable  to  raise  my  voice  above  a  whisper,  and  cough 
ed  incessantly.  On  .the  second  day,  Mrs.  Willard  sent 
for  Dr.  Robbins;  he  said  I  must  be  bled,  and  take  an 
emetic;  this  was  sad;  but  oh,  mamma,  I  could  not 
speak  nor  breathe  without  pain."  There  are  further 
details  of  pains,  remedies,  and  consequent  exhaustion; 
and  yet  this  fragile  and  precious  creature  was  permit 
ted  by  her  physician  and  friends,  kind  and  watchful 
friends  too,  to  proceed  in  her  suicidal  preparations  for 
examination!  There  was  nothing  uncommon  in  this 
injudiciousness.  Such  violations  of  the  laws  of  our 


*  This  was  in  consequence  of  a  positive  command  from  her 
mother. 


76  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

physical  nature  are  every  day  committed  by  persons, 
in  other  respects,  the  wisest  and  the  best,  and  onr  poor 
little  martyr  may  not  have  suffered  in  vain,  if  her  ex 
perience  awakens  attention  to  the  subject. 

In  the  letter  from  which  we  have  quoted  above,  and 
which  is  filled  with  expressions  of  love  for  the  dear 
ones  at  home,  she  continues:  "  Tell  Morris  I  will  an 
swer  his  letter  in  full  next  quarter,  but  now  I  fear  I  am 
doing  wrong,  for  I  am  yet  quite  feeble,  and  when  I 
get  stronger,  I  shall  be  very  avaricious  of  my  time,  in 
order  to  prepare  for  the  coming  week. 

"  We  must  study  morning,  noon,  and  night.  I  shall 
rise  behveen  two  and  four  now  every  morning,  till 
the  dreaded  day  is  past.  I  rose  the  other  night  at 
twelve,  but  was  ordered  back  to  bed  again.  You  see 
mamma,  I  shall  have  a  chance  to  become  an  early 
riser  here."  "  Had  I  not  written  you  that  I  was  com 
ing  home,  I  think  I  should  not  have  seen  you  this  win 
ter.  All  my  friends  think  I  had  better  remain  here, 
as  the  journey  will  be  long  and  cold;  but  oh!  there  is 
at  that  journey's  end,  which  would  tempt  me  through 
the  wilds  of  Siberia — father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters, 
home.  Yes,  I  shall  come." 

We  insert  some  stanzas,  written  about  this  time,  not 
so  much  for  their  poetical  merit,  as  for  the  playful 
spirit  that  beams  through  them,  and  which  seems  like 
sunbeams  smiling  on  a  cataract. 

A  WEEK  BEFORE  EXAMINATION. 

One  has  a  headache,  one  a  cold, 
One  has  her  neck  in  flannel  rolled; 


BIOGRAPHY.  77 

Ask  the  complaint,  and  you  are  told 

'  Next  week's  examination.' 

One  frets  and  scolds,  and  laughs  and  cries, 
Another  hopes,  despairs,  and  sighs; 
Ask  but  the  cause,  and  each  replies, 

'  Next  week's  examination.' 

One  bans  her  books,  then  grasps  them  tight, 
And  studies  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
As  though  she  took  some  strange  delight 
4  In  these  examinations.' 

The  books  are  marked,  defaced,  and  thumbed, 
The  brains  with  midnight  tasks  benumbed, 
Still  all  in  that  account  is  summed, 

4  Next  week's  examination.' 

In  a  letter,  February  10th,  she  says,  "  The  dreaded 
work  of  examination  is  now  going  on,  my  dear  mo 
ther.  To-morrow  evening,  which  will  be  the  last,  is 
always  the  most  crowded,  is  the  time  fixed  upon  for 
my  entree  upon  the  field  of  action.  Oh!  I  hope  I 
shall  not  disgrace  myself.  It  is  the  rule  here  to  reserve 
the  best  classes  till  the  last;  so  I  suppose  I  may  take  it 
as  a  compliment  that  we  are  delayed." 

"February  12th.  The  examination  is  over.  E 

E did  herself  and  her  native  village  honour;  but 

as  for  your  poor  Luly,  she  acquitted  herself,  I  trust, 
decently!  Oh!  mamma,  I  was  so  frightened!  but, 
although  my  face  glowed  and  my  voice  trembled,  I 
did  make  out  to  get  through,  for  I  knew  my  lessons. 
The  room  was  crowded  almost  to  suffocation.  All 
was  still — the  fall  of  a  pin  could  have  been  heard — 


78  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

.and  I  tremble  when  I  think  of  it  even  now."  No  one 
can  read  these  melancholy  records  without  emotion. 

Her  visit  home  during  the  vacation  was  given  up, 
in  compliance  with  the  advice  of  her  guardian.  "  I 
wept  a  good  long  hour  or  so,"  she  says,  with  her 
characteristic  gentle  acquiescence,  "and  then  made  up 
my  mind  to  be  content." 

In  her  next  letter  she  relates  an  incident  very 
striking  in  her  eventful  life. 

It  occurred  in  returning  to  Troy,  after  her  vacation, 
passed  happily  with  her  friends  in  the  vicinity. 
"  Uncle  went  to  the  ferry  with  me,"  she  says,  "  where 
we  met  Mr.  Paris.  Uncle  placed  me  under  his  care, 
and,  snugly  seated  by  his  side,  I  expected  a  very  plea 
sant  ride,  with  a  very  pleasant  gentleman.  All  was 
pleasant,  except  that  we  expected  every  instant  that 
all  the  ice  in  the  Hudson  would  come  drifting  against 
us,  and  shut  in  scow,  stage,  and  all,  or  sink  us  to  the 
bottom,  which,  in  either  case,  you  know,  mother, 
would  not  have  been  quite  so  agreeable.  We  had 
just  pushed  from  the  shore,  I  watching  the  ice  with 
anxious  eyes,  when,  lo!  the  two  leaders  made  a  tre 
mendous  plunge,  and  tumbled  headlong  into  the  river. 
I  felt  the  carriage  following  fast  after;  the  other  two 
horses  pulled  back  with  all  their  po  wer,  but  the  lead 
ers  were  dragging  them  down,  dashing  and  plunging, 
and  flouncing  in  the  water.  '  Mr.  Paris,  in  mercy  let 
us  get  out!'  said  I.  But,  as  he  did  riot  see  the  horses, 
he  felt  no  alarm.  The  moment  I  informed  him  they 
were  overboard,  he  opened  the  door,  and  cried,  'Get 
out  and  save  yourself,  if  possible;  I  am  old  and  stiff, 


BIOGRAPHY.  79 

but  I  will  follow  in  an  instant.'  '  Out  with  the  lady! 
let  the  lady  out!'  shouted  several  voices  at  once; '  the 
other  horses  are  about  to  plunge,  and  then  all  will  be 
over.'  I  made  a  lighter  spring  than  many  a  lady 
does  in  a  cotillon,  and  jumped  upon  a  cake  of  ice. 
Mr.  Paris  followed,  and  we  stood,  (I  trembling  like  a 
leaf,)  expecting  every  instant  that  the  next  plunge  of 
the  drowning  horses  would  detach  the  piece  of  ice 
upon  which  we  were  standing,  and  send  us  adrift;  but, 
thank  Heaven,  after  working  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes, 
by  dint  of  ropes,  and  cutting  them  away  from  the 
other  horses,  they  dragged  the  poor  creatures  out  more 
dead  than  alive. 

"  Mother,  don't  you  think  I  displayed  some  cou 
rage?  I  jumped  into  the  stage  again,  and  shut  the 
door,  while  Mr.  Paris  remained  outside,  watching  the 
movement  of  affairs.  We  at  length  reached  here,  and 
I  am  alive,  as  you  see,  to  tell  the  story  of  my  woes." 

In  her  next  letter  she  details  a  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Willard,  full  of  kind  commendation  and  good 
counsel.  "  Mamma,"  she  concludes,  "  you  would  be 
justified  in  thinking  me  a  perfect  lump  of  vanity  and 
egotism;  but  I  have  always  related  to  you  every 
thought,  every  action  of  my  life.  I  have  had  no  con 
cealments  from  you,  and  I  have  stated  these  matters 
to  you  because  they  fill  me  with  surprise.  Who 
would  think  the  accomplished  Mrs.  Willard  would 
admire  my  poor  daubing,  or  my  poor  anything  else ! 
Oh,  dear  mamma,  I  am  so  happy  now!  so  contented! 
Every  unusual  movement  startles  me.  I  am  con 
stantly  afraid  of  something  to  mar  it." 


80  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  next  extract  is  from  a  letter,  the  emanation  of 
her  affectionate  spirit,  to  a  favourite  brother  seven 
years  old. 

"  Dear  L ,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  two 

very  interesting  epistles,  and  much  doubt  whether  I 
could  spell  more  ingeniously  myself.  Really,  I  have 
some  idea  of  sending  them  to  the  printers,  to  be  struck 
off  in  imitation  of  a  Chinese  puzzle.  Your  questions 
about  the  stars  I  have  been  cogitating  some  time  past, 
and  am  of  the  opinion,  that,  if  there  are  beings  inha 
biting  those  heavenly  regions,  they  must  be  content  to 
feed,  cameleon-like,  upon  air;  for  even  were  we  dis 
posed  to  spare  them  a  portion  of  our  earth  sufficient 
to  plant  a  garden,  I  doubt  whether  the  attraction  of 
gravitation  would  not  be  too  strong  for  resistance,  and 
the  unwilling  clod  return  to  its  pale  brethren  of  the 
valley  '  to  rest  in  ease  inglorious.'  So  far  from  burn 
ing  your  precious  letters,  my  dear  little  brother,  I  care 
fully  preserve  them  in  a  little  pocket-book,  and  when 
I  feel  lonely  and  desolate,  and  think  of  my  dear  home, 
I  turn  them  over  and  over  again.  Do  write  often,  my 
sweet  little  correspondent,  and  believe  me,"  &c.  &c. 

Her  next  letter  to  her  mother,  written  in  March, 
was  in  a  melancholy  strain;  but  as  if  to  avert  her 
parent's  consequent  anxieties,  she  concludes: 

"  I  hope  you  will  feel  no  concern  for  my  health  or 
happiness.  Do,  my  dear  mother,  try  to  be  cheerful, 
and  have  good  courage." 

"  I  have  been  to  the  Rennsselaer  school,  to  attend 
the  philosophical  lectures.  They  are  delivered  by  the 
celebrated  Mr.  Eaton,  who  has  several  students, 


BIOGRAPHY.  81 

young  gentlemen.  I  hope  they  will  not  lose  their 
hearts  among  twenty  or  thirty  pretty  girls.  For  my 
part,  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  as  fast  as  might  be  upon, 
the  good  old  lecturer,  as  I  am  of  the  opinion,  that  he 
is  the  best  possible  safeguard,  with  his  philosophy  and 
his  apparatus;  for  you  know  philosophy  and  love  are 
sworn  enemies!"  .  - 

Miss  Davidson  returned  to  Plattsburgh  during  the 
spring  vacation.  Her  mother,  when  the  first  rapture 
of  reunion  was  over,  the  first  joy  at  finding  her  child 
unchanged  in  the  modesty  and  naturalness  of  her  de 
portment,  and  fervor  of  her  affections,  became  alarmed 
at  the  indications  of  disease,  in  the  extreme  fragility  of 
her  person,  and  the  deep  and  fluctuating  colour  of  her 
cheek.  Lucretia  insisted,  and,  deceived  by  that  ever 
deceiving  disease,  believed  she  was  well.  She  was 
gay  and  full  of  hope,  and  could  hardly  be  persuaded 
to  submit  to  her  father's  medical  prescriptions;  but  the 
well  known  crimson  spot,  that  so  often  flushed  her 
cheek,  was  regarded  by  him  with  the  deepest  anxiety, 
and  he  shortly  called  counsel.  During  her  stay  at 
home  she  wrote  a  great  deal.  Like  the  bird,  which 
is  to  pass  away  with  the  summer,  she  seems  to  have 
been  ever  on  the  wing,  pouring  forth  the  spontaneous 
melodies  of  her  soul.  The  following  are  a  few  stanzas 
from  a  piece 

«  ON  SPRING." 

"I  have  seen  the  fair  Spring,  I  have  heard  her  sweet  song, 
As  she  passed  in  her  lightness  and  freshness  along; 
6 


82  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  blue  wave  rolled  deeper,  the  moss-crest  looked  bright, 
A8  she  breathed  o'er  the  regions  of  darkness  and  night. 

"  I  have  seen  the  rose  bloom  on  the  youthful  cheek, 
And  the  dew  of  delight  'neath  the  bright  lash  break; 
The  bounding  footstep,  scarce  pressing  the  earth, 
And  the  lip  which  speaks  of  a  soul  of  mirth. 

"  I  have  seen  the  winter  with  brow  of  care, 
With  his  soulless  eye  and  his  snow  white  hair; 
And  whate'er  his  footsteps  had  touched  was  cold, 
As  the  lifeless  stone  which  the  sculptors  mould. 
******** 
"  As  I  knelt  by  the  sepulchre,  dreary  and  lone, 
Lay  the  beautiful  form  in  its  temple  of  stone; 
I  looked  for  its  coming, — the  warm  wind  passed  by, — 
I  looked  for  its  coming  on  earth  and  on  high. 

"The  young  leaves  gleamed  brightly  around  the  cold  spot, 
I  looked  for  the  spirit,  yet  still  it  came  not. 
Shall  the  flower  of  the  valley  burst  forth  to  the  light, 
And  man  in  his  beauty  lie  buried  in  night] 

"  A  voice  on  the  waters,  a  voice  in  the  sky, 
A  voice  from  beneath,  and  a  voice  from  on  high, 
Proclaims  that  he  shall  not, — that  Spring,  in  her  light, 
Shall  waken  the  spirit  from  darkness  and  night." 

These  were  singular  speculations  for  a  beautiful  girl 
of  sixteen.  Were  there  not  spirits  ministering  to  her 
from  that  world  to  which  she  was  hastening? 

The  physician,  called  in  to  consult  with  her  father, 
was  of  opinion  that  a  change  of  air  and  scene  would 
probably  restore  her,  and  it  was  decided  that  she 
should  return  to  school.  Miss  Gilbert's  boarding 


BIOGRAPHY.  83 

school  at  Albany  was  selected  for  the  next  six  months. 
There  are  few  more  of  her  productions  of  any  sort, 
and  they  seem  to  us  to  have  the  sweetness"  of  the  last 
roses  of  summer.  The  following  playful  passages  are 
from  her  last  letter  at  home  to  her  sister  in  Canada. 

"  The  boat  will  be  here  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  I 
am  all  ready  to  start.  Oh,  I  am  half  sick.  I  have 
taken  several  doses  of  something  quite  delectable  for 
a  visiting  treat.  Now,"  she  concludes  her  letter,  "  by 
your  affection  for  me,  by  your  pity  for  the  wanderer, 
by  your  remembrance  of  the  absent,  by  your  love  for 
each  other,  and  by  all  that  is  sacred  to  an  absent 
friend,  I  charge  you,  write  to  me,  and  write  often.  As 
ye  hope  to  prosper,  as  ye  hope  your  boy  to  prosper, 
(and  grow  fat!)  as  ye  hope  for  my  gratitude  and  affec 
tion  now  and  hereafter,  I  charge  you,  write.  If  ye 
sinfully  neglect  this  last  solemn  injunction  of  a  parting 
friend,  my  injured  spirit  will  visit  you  in  your  trans 
gressions.  It  shall  pierce  you  with  goosequills,  and 
hurl  down  upon  your  recreant  heads  the  brimming 
contents  of  the  neglected  inkstand.  This  is  my  threat 
and  this  is  my  vengeance.  But  if,  on  the  contrary,  ye 
shall  see  fit  to  honour  me  with  numerous  epistles, 
which  shall  be  duly  answered,  know  ye,  that  I  will 
live  and  love  you,  and  not  only  you,  but  your  boy, 
<to  be  beloved,  or  not  to  be  beloved!'  They  have 
come!  Farewell,  a  long  farewell!" — 

She  proceeded  to  Albany,  and  in  a  letter  dated  May 
12th,  1825,  she  seems  delighted  with  her  reception,  ac 
commodations,  and  prospects,  at  Miss  Gilbert's  school. 
She  has  yet  no  anxieties  about  her  health,  and  enters 


84  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

on  her  career  of  study  with  her  customary  ardour. 
With  the  most  delicate  health  and  constant  occupa 
tion,  she  found  time  always  to  write  long  letters  to 
her  mother,  and  the  little  children  at  home,  filled  with 
fond  expressions.  What  an  example  and  rebuke  to 
the  idle  school  girl  who  finds  no  time  for  these  minor 
duties!  But  her  studies,  to  which  she  applied  herself 
beyond  her  strength,  from  the  conscientious  fear  of  not 
fulfilling  the  expectations  of  her  friends,  were  exhaust 
ing  the  sources  of  life.  Her  letters  teem  with  expres 
sions  of  gratitude  to  her  Mr.  K ,  to  Miss  Gilbert, 

and  to  all  the  friends  around  her.  She  complains  of 
debility  and  want  of  appetite,  but  imputes  all  her  ail- 
ings  to  not  hearing  regularly  from  home.  The  mails 
were  of  course  at  fault,  for  her  mother's  devotion  never 
intermitted.  The  following  expressions  will  show 
that  her  sensibility,  naturally  acute,  was  rendered 
intense  by  physical  disease  and  suffering. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  mother,  cannot  you  send  your  Luly 
one  line.  Not  one  word  in  two  weeks!  I  have  done 
nothing  but  weep  all  day  long.  I  feel  so  wretchedly ! 
I  am  afraid  you  are  ill." 

"  I  am  very  wretched,  indeed  I  am.  My  dear  mo 
ther,  am  I  never  to  hear  from  you  again?  I  am  home 
sick.  I  know  I  am  foolish;  but  I  cannot  help  it.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I  am  half  sick.  I  am  so  weak,  so  lan 
guid,  I  cannot  eat.  I  am  nervous,  I  know  I  am;  I 
weep  most  of  the  lime.  I  have  blotted  the  paper  so, 
that  I  cannot  write.  I  cannot  study  much  longer  if  I 
do  not  hear  from  you." 

Letters  from  home  renovated  her  for  a  few  days, 


BIOGRAPHY.  85 

and  at  Mr.  K.'s  request,  she  went  to  the  theatre,  and 
gave  herself  up,  with  all  the  freshness  of  youthful' 
feeling,  to  the  spells  of  the  drama,  and  raved  about 
Hamlet  and  Ophelia  like  any  other  school  girl. 

But  her  next  letter  recurs  to  her  malady,  and  for  the 
first  time,  she  expresses  a  fear  that  her  disease  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  common  remedies.  Her  mother 
was  alarmed,  and  would  have  gone  immediately  to 
her,  but  she  was  herself  confined  to  her  room  by  ill 
ness.  Her  father's  cooler  judgment  inferred  from  their 
receiving  no  letters  from  Lucretia's  friends,  that  there 
was  nothing  immediately  alarming  in  her  symptoms. 

The  next  letter  removed  every  doubt.  It  was 
scarcely  legible;  still  she  assures  her  mother  she  is 
better,  and  begs  she  will  not  risk  the  consequences  of 
a  long  journey.  But  neither  health  nor  life  weighed 
now  with  the  mother  against  seeing  her  child.  She 
set  off,  and  by  appointment,  joined  Mr.  K.  at  White 
hall.  They  proceeded  thence  to  Albany,  where,  after 
the  first  emotions  of  meeting  were  over,  Lucretia  said, 
"  Oh  mamma,  I  thought  I  should  never  have  seen  you 
again!  But,  now  I  have  you  here,  and  can  lay  my 
aching  head  upon  your  bosom,  I  shall  soon  be  better." 

For  a  few  days  the  balm  seemed  effectual;  she  was 
better,  and  the  physicians  believed  she  would  recover; 
but  her  mother  was  no  longer  to  be  persuaded  from 
her  conviction  of  the  fatal  nature  of  the  disease,  and 
arrangements  were  immediately  made  to  convey  her 
to  Plattsburgh.  The  journey  was  effected,  notwith 
standing  it  was  during  the  heats  of  July,  with  less 
physical  suffering  than  was  apprehended.  She  shrunk 


86  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

painfully  from  (he  gaze  her  beauty  inevitably  attract 
ed,  heightened  as  it  was  by  that  disease  which  seems 
to  delight  to  deck  the  victim  for  its  triumph.  "  Her 
joy  upon  finding  herself  at  home,"  says  her  mother, 
"  operated  for  a  time  like  magic."  The  sweet  health- 
giving  influence  of  domestic  love,  the  home  atmo 
sphere,  seemed  to  suspend  the  progress  of  her  disease, 
and  again  her  father,  brothers  and  friends  were  de 
luded;  all  but  the  mother  and  the  sufferer.  She  looked, 
with  prophetic  eye,  calmly  to  the  end.  There  was 
nothing  to  disturb  her.  That  kingdom  that  cometh 
"  without  observation"  was  within  her,  and  she  was 
only  about  to  change  its  external  circumstances,  about 
to  put  off  the  harness  of  life  in  which  she  had  been  so 
patient  and  obedient.  To  the  last  she  manifested  her 
love  of  books.  A  trunk  rilled  with  them  had  not  been 
unpacked.  She  requested  her  mother  to  open  it  at  her 
bed-side,  and  as  each  book  was  given  to  her,  she  turn 
ed  over  the  leaves,  kissed  it,  and  desired  to  have  it 
placed  on  a  table  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  There  they 
remained  to  the  last,  her  eye  often  fondly  resting  on 
them. 

She  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  see  Mr.  Kent  once 
more,  and  a  fear  that  though  he  had  been  summoned, 
he  might  not  arrive  in  time.  He  came,  however,  to 
receive  the  last  expressions  of  her  gratitude,  and  to  hear 
his  own  name  the  last  pronounced  by  her  lips. 

The  "Fear  of  Madness"  was  written  by  her  while 
confined  to  her  bed,  and  was  the  last  piece  she  ever 
wrote.  As  it  constitutes  a  part  of  the  history  of  her 
disease,  it  is,  though  already  published,  inserted  here. 


BIOGRAPHY.  87 

There  is  a  something  which  I  dread, 

It  is  a  dark,  and  fearful  thing; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread, 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 
Of  grief,  of  sickness,  or  of  sadness : 

'Tis  not  the  dread  of  death;  'tis  more, — 
It  is  the  dread  of  madness. 

Oh!  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause, 

Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course; 
May  this  hot  brain,  which,  burning,  glows 

With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  force, 

Be  cold  and  motionless,  and  still 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed; 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal — 
(Unfinished.) 

That  the  records  of  the  last  scenes  of  Lncretia 
Davidson's  life  are  scanty,  is  not  surprising.  The 
materials  for  this  memoir,  it  must  be  remembered, 
were  furnished  by  her  mother.  A  victim  stretched 
on  the  rack  cannot  keep  records.  She  says  in  general 
terms,  "  Lucretia  frequently  spoke  to  me  of  her  ap 
proaching  dissolution,  with  perfect  calmness,  and  as 
an  event  that  must  soon  take  place.  In  a  conversa 
tion  with  Mr.  Townsend,  held  at  intervals,  as  her 
strength  would  permit,  she  expressed  the  same  senti 
ments  she  expressed  to  me  before  she  grew  so  weak. 
She  declared  her  firm  faith  in  the  Christian  religion, 
her  dependence  on  the  divine  promises,  which  she 
said  had  consoled  and  sustained  her  during  her  illness. 


88  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

She  said  her  hopes  of  salvation  were  grounded  on  the 
merits  of  her  Saviour,  and  that  death,  which  had 
once  looked  so  dreadful  to  her,  was  now  divested  of 
all  its  terrors." 

Welcome,  indeed,  should  that  messenger  have  been, 
that  opened  the  gates  of  knowledge,  and  blissful  im 
mortality,  to  such  a  spirit! 

During  Miss  Davidson's  residence  in  Albany,  which 
was  less  than  three  months,  she  wrote  several  miscel 
laneous  pieces,  and  began  a  long  poem,  divided  into 
cantos,  and  entitled  "Maritorne,  or  the  Pirate  of 
Mexico.*'  This  she  deemed  better  than  anything  she 
had  previously  produced.  The  amount  of  her  com 
positions,  considering  the  shortness  and  multifarious 
occupations  of  a  life  less  than  seventeen  years,  is  sur 
prising.* 

We  copy  the  subjoined  paragraph  from  the  biogra 
phical  sketch  prefixed  to  "  Amir  Khan."  "Her  poe 
tical  writings,  which  have  been  collected,  amount  in 
all  to  two  hundred  and  seventy-eight  pieces  of  various 
lengths.  When  it  is  considered,  that  there  are  among 
these  at  least  five  regular  poems,  of  several  cantos 
each,  some  estimate  may  be  formed  of  her  poetical 
labours.  Besides  these  were  twenty-four  school  ex 
ercises,  three  unfinished  romances,  a  complete  tragedy, 
written  at  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  about  forty  let 
ters,  in  a  few  months,  to  her  mother  alone."  This 

*  She  died  on  the  27th  of  August,  1825,  just  a  month  before 
her  seventeenth  birthday. 


BIOGRAPHY.  89 

statement  does  not  comprise  the  large  proportion  (at 
least  one  third  of  the  whole)  which  she  destroyed. 

The  genius  of  Lucretia  Davidson  has  had  the  meed 
of  far  more  authoritative  praise  than  ours.  The 
following  tribute  is  from  the  "London  Quarterly 
Review;"  a  source  whence  praise  of  American  pro 
ductions  is  as  rare  as  springs  in  the  desert.  The 
notice  is  by  Mr.  Southey,  and  is  written  with  the 
earnest  feeling  that  characterizes  that  author,  as  gene 
rous  as  he  is  discriminating.  "  In  these  poems"  (Amir 
Khan,  &c.)  "  there  is  enough  of  originality,  enough 
of  aspiration,  enough  of  conscious  energy,  enough  of 
growing  power  to  warrant  any  expectations,  however 
sanguine,  which  the  patrons  and  the  friends,  and  pa 
rents  of  the  deceased  could  have  formed." 

But,  prodigious  as  the  genius  of  this  young  creature 
was,  still  marvellous  after  all  the  abatements  that 
may  be  made  for  precociousness  and  morbid  deve 
lopment,  there  is  something  yet  more  captivating  in 
her  moral  loveliness.  Her  modesty  was  not  the 
infusion  of  another  mind,  not  the  result  of  cultivation, 
not  the  effect  of  good  taste;  nor  was  it  a  veil  cau 
tiously  assumed  and  gracefully  worn;  but  an  innate 
quality,  that  made  her  shrink  from  incense,  even 
though  the  censer  were  sanctified  by  love.  Her 
mind  was  like  the  exquisite  mirror,  that  cannot  be 
stained  by  human  breath. 

Few  may  have  been  gifted  with  her  genius,  but  all 
can  imitate  her  virtues.  There  is  a  universality  in  the 
holy  sense  of  duty,  that  regulated  her  life.  Few  young 
ladies  will  be  called  on  to  renounce  the  muses  for  do- 


90  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

mestic  duties;  but  many  may  imitate  Lucretia  David 
son's  meek  self-sacrifice,  by  relinquishing  some  favour 
ite  pursuit,  some  darling  object,  for  the  sake  of  an 
humble  and  unpraised  duty;  and,  if  few  can  attain  her 
excellence,  all  may  imitate  her  in  gentleness,  humility, 
industry,  and  fidelity  to  her  domestic  affections.  We 
may  apply  to  her  the  beautiful  lines,  in  which  she  de 
scribes  one  of  those 

forms,  that,  wove  in  Fancy's  loom, 


Float  in  light  visions  round  the  poet's  head." 

"  She  was  a  being  formed  to  love  and  bless, 
With  lavish  nature's  richest  loveliness; 
Such  1  have  often  seen  in  Fancy's  eye, 
Beings  too  bright  for  dull  mortality. 
I've  seen  them  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
I've  faintly  seen  them  when  enough  of  light 
And  dim  distinctness  gave  them  to  my  gaze, 
As  forms  of  other  worlds,  or  brighter  days." 

This  memoir  may  be  fitly  concluded  by  the  follow 
ing  "Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  my  Sister,"  by  Mar 
garet  Davidson,  who  was  but  two  years  old  at  the 
time  of  Lucretia's  death,  and  whom  she  often  men 
tions  with  peculiar  fondness.  The  lines  were  written 
at  the  age  of  eleven.  May  we  be  allowed  to  say,  that 
the  mantle  of  the  elder  sister  has  fallen  on  the  younger, 
and  that  she  seems  to  be  a  second  impersonation  of 
her  spirit? 

"Though  thy  freshness  and  beauty  are  laid  in  the  tomb, 
Like  the  floweret  which  drops  in  its  verdure  and  bloom; 


BIOGRAPHY.  91 

Though  the  halls  of  thy  childhood  now  mourn  thee  in  vain, 
And  thy  strains  shall  ne'er  waken  their  echoes  again, 
Still  o'er  the  fond  memory  they  silently  glide, 
Still,  still  thou  art  ours,  and  America's  pride. 
Sing  on,  thou  pure  seraph,  with  harmony  crowned, 

And  pour  the  full  tide  of  thy  music  along, 
O'er  the  broad  arch  of  Heaven  the  sweet  note  shall  resound, 

And  a  bright  choir  of  angels  shall  echo  the  song. 
The  pure  elevation  which  beamed  from  thine  eye, 
As  it  turned  to  its  home  in  yon  fair  azure  sky, 
Told  of  something  unearthly;  it  shone  with  the  light 
Of  pure  inspiration  and  holy  delight. 
Round  the  rose  that  is  withered  a  fragrance  remains; 
O'er  beauty  in  ruins  the  mind  proudly  reigns. 
Thy  lyre  has  resounded  o'er  ocean's  broad  wave, 
And  the  tear  of  deep  anguish  been  shed  o'er  thy  grave; 
But  thy  spirit  has  mounted  to  mansions  on  high, 
To  the  throne  of  its  God,  where  it  never  can  die." 


POETICAL    REMAINS. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  MY  MUSE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

WHY,  gentle  Muse,  wilt  thou  disdain 

To  lend  thy  strains  to  me? 
Why  do  I  supplicate  in  vain 

And  vow  my  heart  to  thee? 

Oh!  teach  me  how  to  touch  the  lyre, 
To  tune  the  trembling  chord; 

Teach  me  to  fill  each  heart  with  fire, 
And  melting  strains  afford. 

Sweep  but  thy  hand  across  the  string, 
The  woodlands  echo  round, 

And  mortals  wond'ring,  as  you  sing, 
Delighted  catch  each  sound. 

Enchanted  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 

I  drop  each  earthly  care; 
I  feel  as  wafted  from  the  world 

To  Fancy's  realms  of  air. 

Then  as  I  wander,  plaintive  sing, 
And  teach  me  every  strain; 

Teach  me  to  touch  the  trembling  siring 
Which  now  I  strike  in  vains 


AMIR     KHAN 


AMIR    KHAN. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 


PART  I. 

BRIGHTLY  o'er  spire,  and  dome,  and  tower. 
The  pale  moon  shone  at  midnight  hour, 
While  all  beneath  her  smile  of  light 
Was  resting  there  in  calm  delight; 
Evening  with  robe  of  stars  appears, 
Bright  as  repentant  Peri's  tears, 
And  o'er  her  turban's  fleecy  fold 
Night's  crescent  streamed  its  rays  of  gold, 
While  every  crystal  cloud  of  Heaven, 
Bowed  as  it  passed  the  queen  of  even. 

Beneath — calm  Cashmere's  lovely  vale1 
Breathed  perfumes  to  the  sighing  gale; 
The  amaranth  and  tuberose, 
Convolvulus  in  deep  repose, 
Bent  to  each  breeze  which  swept  their  bed, 
Or  scarcely  kiss'd  the  dew  and  fled ; 
The  bulbul,  with  his  lay  of  love;2 
Sang  'mid  the  stillness  of  the  grove; 


100  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  gulnare  blushed  a  deeper  hue,3 
And  trembling  shed  a  shower  of  dew, 
Which  perfumed  e'er  it  kiss'd  the  ground, 
Each  zephyr's  pinion  hovering  round. 
The  lofty  plane-tree's  haughty  brow4 
Glitter'd  beneath  the  moon's  pale  glow; 
And  wide  the  plantain's  arms  were  spread,1 
The  guardian  of  its  native  bed. 

Where  was  Amreta  at  this  hour? 

Say!  was  she  slumbering  in  her  bower? 

Or  gazing  on  this  scene  of  rest, 

Less  calm,  less  peaceful  than  her  breast? 

Or  was  she  resting  in  the  dream 

Of  brighter  days  on  Fortune's  stream? 

Or  was  she  weeping  Friendship  broken, 

Or  sighing  o'er  Love's  withered  token? 

No! — She  was  calmly  resting  there, 
Her  eye  nor  spoke  of  hope  nor  fear, 
But,  'mid  the  blaze  of  splendour  round, 
For  ever  bent  upon  the  ground, 
Their  long,  dark  lashes  hid  from  view, 
The  brilliant  glances  which  they  threw. 
Her  cheek  was  neither  pale  nor  red; 
The  rose,  upon  its  summer-bed, 
Could  never  boast  so  faint  a  hue, 
So  faint,  and  yet  so  brilliant  too ! 

Though  round  her,  Cashmere's  incense  streamed; 
Though  Persia's  gems  around  her  beamed; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  101 

Though  diamonds  of  Golconda  shed 

Their  warmest  lustre  o'er  her  head; 

Though  music  lulled  each  fear  to  sleep, 

Soft  as  the  night-wind  o'er  the  deep; 

Just  waking  love  and  calm  delight, 

Kindling  Hope's  watch-fire  clear  and  bright; 

For  her,  though  Cashmere's  roses  twine 

Together  round  the  parent  vine; 

And  though  to  her.  as  Cashmere's  star, 

Knelt  the  once  haughty  Subahdar;6 

Still,  still  Amreta  gazed  unmoved, 

Nor  sighed,  nor  smiled,  nor  owned  she  loved! 

But  like  the  Parian  marble  there, 

As  bright,  as  exquisitely  fair, 

She  seemed  by  Nature  formed  to  be, 

A  being  purely  heavenly. 

But  never  from  those  lips  of  red 

A  single  syllable  had  fled, 

Since  Amir  Khan  first  bless'd  the  hour7 

That  placed  Amreta  in  his  bower; 

Within  that  bower  'mid  twining  roses, 

Upon  whose  leaves  the  breeze  reposes, 

She  sits  unmoved,  while  round  her  flow, 

Strains  of  sweet  music,  sad,  and  low, 

Or  now  in  softer  numbers  breathing, 

A  song  of  love  and  sorrow  wreathing, 

Such  strains  as  in  wild  sweetness  ran 

Through  the  sad  breast  of  Arnir  Khan ! 

He  lov'd, — and  oh!— he  loved  so  well 
That  sorrow  scarce  dared  break  the  spell; 


102  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Though  oft  Suspicion  whispered  near 
One  vague,  one  sadly  boding  fear, 
A  fear  that  Heaven  in  wrath  had  made 
That  face  with  seraph-charms  array'd, 
And  then  denied  in  mockery  there, 
A  heart  within  a  form  so  fair! — 

****** 

Cool  and  refreshing  sighs  the  breeze 
Through  the  long  walk  of  tzinnar  trees,8 
And  cool  upon  the  water's  breast 
The  pale  moon  rocks  herself  to  rest, — 
Yes!  calmer,  brighter,  cooler  far 
Than  the  fever'd  brow  of  the  Subahdar! 

Amreta  was  fair  as  the  morning  beam 
As  it  gilds  the  wave  of  the  Wuller's  stream,9 
But  oh,  she  was  cold  as  the  marble  floor 
That  glitters  beneath  the  nightly  shower. 
Where  was  that  eye  which  none  could  scan, 
Which  once  belonged  to  Amir  Khan? 
Where  was  that  voice  that  mocked  the  storm; 
Where  was  that  tall,  majestic  form? 
That  eye  was  turn'd  in  love  and  wo 
Upon  Amreta's  changeless  brow, 
That  haughty  form  was  bending  low, 
That  voice  was  utt'ring  vow  on  vow, 
Beneath  the  lofty  plane-tree's  shade, 

Before  that  cold  Circassian  maid ! 

/• 

"  Oh  speak!  Amreta — but  one  word! 
Let  one  soft  sigh  confess  I'm  heard! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  103 

Those  eyes,  (than  those  of  yon  gazelle 
More  bright,)  a  tale  of  love  might  tell! 
Then  speak,  Amreta!  raise  thine  eye, 
Blush,  smile,  or  answer  with  one  sigh." 

But  'twas  in  vain — no  sigh — no  word 
Told  that  his  humble  suit  was  heard: 
Veiled  'neath  their  silken  lashes  there, 
Her  dark  eyes  glanc'd  no  answer'd  prayer, 
Upon  her  cheek  no  blush  was  straying, 
Around  her  lip  no  smile  was  playing, 
And  calm  despair  reigned  darkly  now, 
O'er  Amir  Khan's  deep-clouded  brow. 

What  pity  that  so  fair  a  form 

Should  want  a  heart  with  feeling  warm! 

What  pity  that  an  eye  so  bright 

Should  beam  o'er  Reason's  clouded  night! 

And  like  a  star  in  Mahmoud's  wave,10 

Should  glitter  o'er  a  dreary  grave: 

A  dark  abyss — a  sunless  day, 

An  endless  night  without  one  ray. 

'Twas  at  that  calm,  that  silent  hour, 
When  the  tall  poppy  sheds  its  shower, 
When  all  on  earth,  and  all  on  high 
Seemed  breathing  slumber's  sweetest  sigh; 
At  that  calm  hour,  when  Peris  love 
To  gaze  upon  the  Heaven  above, 
Whose  portals  bright  with  many  a  gem, 
Are  closed — for  ever  closed  on  them; 


104  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

'Twas  at  this  silent,  solemn  hour, 
That,  gliding  from  his  summer-bower, 
The  Subahdar  with  noiseless  step, 
Rush'd  like  the  night-breeze  o'er  the  deep. 

Where  flies  the  haughty  Subahdar? 
Onward  he  flies — to  where  afar 
Proud  Hirney  Purvit  rears  his  head11 
High  above  Cashmere's  blooming  bed, 
And  twines  his  turban's  fleecy  fold 
With  many  a  brilliant  ray  gold. 

There,  'neath  a  plantain's  sacred  shade, 
Which  deep,  and  dark,  and  widely  spread, 
Al  Shinar's  high  prophetic  form 
Held  secret  counsel  with  the  storm; 
His  hand  had  grasped,  with  fearless  might, 
The  mantle  of  descending  night; 
Such  matchless  skill  the  prophet  knew, 
Such  wondrous  feats  his  hand  could  do, 
That  Persia's  realm  astonished  saw, 
And  Cashmere's  valley  gazed  with  awe! 

Low  bow'd  the  lofty  Amir  Khan, 

Before  the  high  and  mighty  man, 

And  bending  o'er  the  Naptha  stream, 

Which  onward  rolled  its  fiery  gleam, 

The  Subahdar  in  murmurs  told 

Of  beauteous  form,  of  bosom  cold, 

Of  rayless  eye,  of  changeless  cheek, 

Of  tongue  which  could  or  would  not  speak. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  105 

At  length  the  mourner's  tale  had  ceased, 

He  crossed  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 

He  spoke  no  word — he  breath'd  no  sigh, 

But  keenly  fixed  his  piercing  eye 

Upon  Al  Shinar's  gloomy  brow, 

In  all  the  deep  despair  of  wo. 

The  prophet  paused; — his  eye  he  raised, 

And  stern  and  earnestly  he  gazed, 

As  if  to  pierce  the  sable  veil 

Which  would  conceal  the  mournful  tale; — 

When,  starting,  with  a  sudden  blow, 

He  op'd  a  portal  dark  and  low, 

Which  shrouded  from  each  mortal  eye 

Al  Shinar's  cavern  broad  and  high; 

'Twas  bright,  'twas  exquisitely  bright, 

For  founts  of  rich  and  living  light 

There  poured  their  burning  treasures  forth, 

Which  sought  again  the  parent  earth. 

Rich  vases,  with  sweet  incense  streaming, 
Mirrors  a  flood  of  brilliance  beaming, 
Fountain,  and  bath,  and  curling  stream, 
At  every  turn  before  them  beam; 
And  marble  pillars,  pure  and  cold, 
And  glittering  roof,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  gems,  and  diamonds  met  his  view, 
In  wild  and  rich  profusion  too; 
And  had  Amreta's  smiles  been  given, 
This  place  had  been  the  Moslem  heaven! 

The  prophet  paused;  while  Amir  Khan 
Gazed,  awe-struck,  at  the  wondrous  man; 


106  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Al  Shinar  pluck'd  a  pale  blue  flower, 
Which  bent  beneath  the  fountain's  shower, 
Then  slowly  turn'd  towards  Amir  Khan 
And  placed  the  treasure  in  his  hand. 

"Mark  me!"  he  cried: — "  this  pensive  flower, 

Gathered  at  midnight's  magic  hour, 

Will  charm  each  passion  of  the  breast, 

And  calm  each  throbbing  nerve  to  rest; 

'Twill  leave  thy  bounding  bosom  warm, 

But  set  death's  seal  upon  thy  form; 

'Twill  leave  thee  stiff,  and  cold,  and  pale, 

A  slumberer  'neath  an  icy  veil, 

But  still  shall  Reason's  conscious  reign, 

Unbroken,  undisturbed  remain, 

And  thou  shall  hear,  and  feel,  and  know 

Each  sigh,  each  touch,  each  throb  of  wo!" 

Go,  thou!  and  if  Amreta  be 
Worthy  of  love,  and  worthy  thee, 
When  she  beholds  thee  pale  and  cold, 
Wrapp'd  in  the  damp  sepulchral  fold;— 
When  her  eye  wanders  for  that  glow 
Once  burning  on  thy  marble  brow; 
Then,  if  her  bosom's  icy  frame 
Hath  ever  warmed  'neath  passion's  flame, 
'Twill  heave  tumultuous  as  it  glows 
Like  Baikal's  everlasting  throes; 
And  if  to-morrow  eve  you  press 
This  pale,  cold  flow'ret  to  your  breast, 
Ere  morning  smiles,  its  spell  will  prove 
If  that  cold  heart  be  worth  thy  love ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  1Q7 


PART  II. 

THERE'S  silence  in  the  princely  halls, 
And  brightly  blaze  the  lighted  walls, 
While  clouds  of  musk  and  incense  rise 
From  vases  of  a  thousand  dyes, 
And  roll  their  perfumed  treasures  wide, 
In  one  luxuriant  fragrant  tide; 
And  glittering  chandeliers  of  gold, 
Reflecting  fire  from  every  fold, 
Hung  o'er  the  shrouded  body  there, 
Of  Cashmere's  once  proud  Subahdar! 

The  crystal's  and  the  diamond's  rays 
Kindled  a  wide  and  brilliant  blaze; 
The  ruby's  blush — the  coral's  too, 
By  Peris  dipp'd  in  Henna's  dew, — 
The  topaz's  rich  and  golden  ray, 
The  opal's  flame, — the  agate  gray, 
The  amethyst  of  violet  hue, 
The  sapphire  with  its  heavenly  blue, 
The  snow-white  jasper  sparkling  there 
Near  the  carbuncle's  deepening  glare; 
The  warm  carnelian's  blushing  glow, 
Reflected  back  the  brilliant  flow 


108  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Of  light,  which  in  refulgent  streams, 
O'er  hall,  o'er  bower,  and  fountain  beams. 

O'er  beds  of  roses,  bright  with  dew, 

Unfolding  modestly  to  view, 

Each  trembling  leaf,  each  blushing  breast, 

In  Cashmere's  wildest  sweetness  dressed; 

Through  vistas  long, — through  myrtle-bowers, 

Where  Amir  Khan  once  passed  his  hours 

In  gazing  on  Amreta's  face, 

So  full  of  beauty  and  of  grace, 

Through  veils  of  silver,  bright  and  clear, 

It  pour'd  its  soften'd  radiance  far; 

Or  beam'd  in  pure  and  milky  brightness, 

O'er  urns  of  alabaster  whiteness; 

Through  Persian  screens  of  glittering  gold1, 

O'er  many  an  altar's  sacred  fold, 

Where  to  eternity  will  blaze 

The  Naptha's  never-fading  rays, 

The  Gheber's  fire,  which  dieth  never, 

But  burns,  and  beams,  and  glows  for  evert 

'Twas  silent — not  a  voice  was  heard — 
No  sigh,  no  murmur,  not  one  word, 
Was  echoed  through  that  brilliant  hall, 
The  spell  of  silence  hung  o'er  all ; 
For  there  had  paus'd  the  wing  of  death, 
The  midnight  Spirit's  withering  breath. 

'Twas  midnightf — and  no  murmur  rose 
To  break  the  charm  of  deep  repose; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  109 

The  lake  was  glittering,  and  the  breeze 
Sighed  softly  through  the  tzinnar-trees, 
And  kiss'd  the  Wuller's  wave  of  blue, 
Or  sipped  the  gull's  bright  trembling  dew; 
But  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sigh 
Was  wafted  by  the  night-breeze  by, 
Through  that  wide  hall  and  princely  bower, 
At  midnight's  calm  and  silent  hour! 

0!  where  was  love  his  night-watch  keeping? 
Or  was  the  truant  sweetly  sleeping? 
Where  was  he  at  that  hour  of  rest, 
By  him  created,  claimed  and  bless'd? 
Where  were  the  tears  of  love  and  sorrow, 
The  sigh  which  sympathy  can  borrow? 
Where  were  regret,  and  sad  despair? 
Where  was  Amreta? — where,  0  where? 

Hark!  'tis  the  night-breeze,  softly  playing, 

Through  veils  of  glittering  silver  straying — 

No !  'tis  a  step — so  quick,  so  light, 

That  the  gentle  flower,  which  weeps  at  night, 

Would  raise  again  its  drooping  head, 

To  greet  the  footstep  which  had  fled. 

'Tis  not  the  breeze  which  floats  around, 
Lifting  the  light  veil  from  the  ground, 
No!  'tis  a  form  of  heavenly  mien 
Hath  dared  to  draw  the  curtain's  screen. 

Dimly  behind  the  fluttering  veil, 
Which  trembles  in  the  breathing  gale, 


HO  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

That  form  appears  of  seraph  mould 
Beneath  a  light  cloud's  fleecy  fold. 
The  veil  is  drawn  with  hasty  hand, 
Loosed  is  the  rich  embroider'd  band — 
'Tis  solemn  solitude  around, 
There's  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound — 
Again  a  snowy  hand  is  seen, 
Again  is  raised  the  silken  screen, 
And  lo!  with  light  and  noiseless  tread, 
Amreta  glides  towards  the  dead! 

Her  veil  was  fluttering  in  the  air, 

Her  brow,  as  Parian  marble  fair, 

Was  glittering  bright  with  many  a  gem, 

Set  in  a  brilliant  diadem; 

Her  long  dark  hair  was  floating  far, 

Braided  with  many  a  diamond  star; 

Her  eye  was  raised,  and  0,  that  eye 

Seemed  only  formed  to  gaze  on  high! 

For  0,  more  piercing  bright  its  beam 

Than  diamonds  'neath  Golconda's  stream; 

That  angel-eye  was  only  given 

To  look  upon  its  native  heaven ! 

The  glow  upon  her  cheek  was  bright, 

But  it  came,  and  it  fled  like  a  meteor's  light; 

A  brilliant  tear  was  still  lingering  there, 

And  0,  it  was  shed  for  the  Subahdar! 

And,  Amir  Khan,  thy  heart  has  bled 
O'er  every  tear  Amreta  shed; 
But  ah !  Amreta  weeps  for  thee, 
0!  what  is  now  thy  ecstasy! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  HI 

For  Amir  Khan,  Amreta  weeps, 
Yet  Amir  Khan  unheeding  sleeps! 
Like  crystal  dew-drops  purely  glowing, 
O'er  his  pale  brow  her  tears  are  flowing; 
She  wipes  them  with  her  veil  away, 
Less  sacred  far — less  sweet  than  they ! 

Where  was  that  eye  which  once  had  gazed 

On  her,  for  whom  alone  'twas  raised? 

Where  was  that  glance  of  love  and  wo? 

Where  was  that  bosom's  throbbing  glow? 

All,  all  was  cold,  and  silent  there, 

And  all  was  death,  and  dark  despair! 

She  hid  her  face,  now  cold  and  pale, 

Within  her  sweetly-scented  veil; 

Then  seized  her  lute,  and  a  strain  so  clear, 

So  mournful  arose  upon  the  air, 

That  oh!  it  was  sweet  as  the  music  of  heaven, 

O'er  a  lost  one  returning,  a  sinner  forgiven! 

Such  notes  as  repentance  in  sorrow  might  sing, 

Notes  wafted  to  heaven  by  Israfil's  wing: — 

SONG. 

Bright  Star  of  the  Morning! — this  bosom  is  cold, — 

I  was  forced  from  my  native  shade, 
And  I  wrapp'd  me  around  with  my  mantle's  fold, 

A  sad,  mournful  Circassian  maid! 

And  I  then  vowed  that  rapture  should  never  move 
This  changeless  cheek,  this  rayless  eye, 


112  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  I  then  vowed  to  feel  neither  bliss  nor  love, 
But  I  vowed  I  would  meet  thee  and  die! 

But  each  burning  sigh  which  thy  bosom  has  breath'd, 
Seem'd  melting  that  dark  chain  away; 

The  dark  chain  of  silence  that  round  me  was  wreath'd 
On  the  morn  of  that  fatal  day! 

'Tis  done! — and  this  night  I  have  broken  the  vow 

Which  bound  me  in  silence  for  ever, 
But  thy  spirit  hath  fled  from  this  world  of  wo, 

To  come  again  never!  0  never! 

My  soul,  0  how  sad!  and  my  heart  0  how  weary! 

For  thy  bosom  is  cold  to  me; 
Without  thy  fond  smile  the  wide  world  is  dreary, 

Then  I  will  fly  quickly  with  thee! 

Together  we'll  float  down  eternity's  stream, 
Twin  stars  on  the  breast  of  the  billow, 

The  brilliance  of  Paradise  round  us  shall  beam, 
And  thy  bosom  shall  be  my  pillow! 

Then  open  thine  arms,  bright  Star  of  the  Morning! 

My  grave  in  thy  bosom  shall  be ! 
The  splendours  of  Heaven  already  are  dawning, 

My  Heaven  is  only  with  thee! 

Hushed  were  the  words,  and  hushed  the  song, 
Which  sadly,  sweetly,  flowed  along; 
But  Amir  Khan's  warm  heart  beat  high, 
Though  closed  and  rayless  was  his  eye; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  113 

And  every  note  which  struck  his  ear 
Whispered  that  hovering  angel  near; 
And  her  warm  tears  which  wet  his  cheek 
Her  now  revealed  love  bespeak. 

His  bosom  bounded  to  be  free, 

And  fluttered  wild  with  ecstasy ! 

0!  would  the  magic  charm  had  pass'd! 

Would  that  the  morn  would  break  at  last! 

But  no!  it  will  not,  may  not  be! 

He  is  not,  nor  can  yet  be  free ! 

But  hark!  Amreta's  murmurs  rise, 
Sweet  as  the  bird's  of  Paradise; 
She  bowed  her  head,  and  deeply  sighed, 
"  Yes,  Amir  Khan,  I  am  thy  bride! 
And  here  the  crimson  hand  of  Death 
Shall  wed  us  with  a  rosy  wreath! 
My  blood  shall  join  us  as  it  flows, 
And  bind  us  in  a  deep  repose!" 

Beneath  her  veil  a  light  is  beaming, 
A  dagger  in  her  hand  is  gleaming, 
And  livid  was  the  light  it  threw, 
A  pale,  cold,  death-like  stream  of  blue, 
Around  her  form  of  angel  brightness, 
And  o'er  her  brow  of  marble  whiteness! 

Awake!  0  Amir  Khan,  awake! 
Canst  thou  not  rouse  thee  for  her  sake? 
8 


!14  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Beside  thee  can  Amreta  stand, 
The  fatal  dagger  in  her  hand, 
And  canst  thou  still  unconscious  lie, 
And  see  thy  loved  Amreta  die? 
Awake  thee!  Amir  Khan,  awake! 
And  rouse  thee  for  Amreta's  sake! 

Like  lightning  from  a  midnight  cloud, 
The  Subahdar  from  'neath  his  shroud, 
Burst  the  cold,  magic,  death-like  band, 
And  snatched  the  dagger  from  her  hand! 
The  maiden  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
And  deep  and  lengthened  was  her  rest! 
There  was  no  sigh,  no  murmur  there, 
And  scarcely  breathed  the  Subahdar, 
While  almost  fearing  to  be  blessed, 
He  clasped  Amreta  to  his  breast! 

Deep  buried  in  his  mantle's  fold, 

He  felt  not  that  her  cheek  was  cold; 

His  own  heart  throbbed  with  pleasure's  thrill, 

But  whispered  not  that  hers  was  still!  — 

Yes!  the  wild  flow  of  blissful  joy, 

Which,  bursting,  threatened  to  destroy, 

Gave  to  her  soul  a  rest  from  feeling; 

A  transient  torpor  gently  stealing 

O'er  beating  pulse  and  throbbing  breast, 

Had  calmed  her  every  nerve  to  rest. 

But  see!  the  tide  of  life  returns, 

Once  more  her  cheek  with  rapture  burns, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  115 

Once  more  her  dark  eye's  heavenly  beam 
Pours  forth  its  full  and  piercing  gleam; 
Once  more  her  heart  is  bounding  high, 
Too  full  too  weep — too  blessed  to  sigh! 


NOTES  TO  AMIR  KHAN. 


"Cashmere,  called  the  happy  valley,  the  garden  in  perpetual  spring, 
and  the  Paradise  of  India." 


II. 

The  bulbul  wkh  his  lay  of  love,  &c. 
"The  Bulbul  or  Nightingale.1' 

IIL 

The  gulnare  blush'd  a  deeper  hue,  &c. 
"  Gulnare  or  Rose." 

IV. 

The  lofty  plane-tree's  haughty  brow,  &c. 

"The  Plane-tree,  that  species  termed  Platanus  orientalis,  is  com 
monly  cultivated  in  Cashmere,  where  it  is  said  to  arrive  at  a  greater 
perfection  than  in  any  other  country.  This  tree,  which  in  most  parts 
of  Asia  is  called  the  Chinur,  grows  to  the  size  of  an  oak,  and  has  a 
taper,  straight  trunk,  with  a  silver-coloured  bark,  and  its  leaf,  not 


118  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

unlike  an  expanded  hand,  is  of  a  pale  green.  When  in  full  foliage  it 
has  a  grand  and  beautiful  appearance,  and  in  hot  weather  affords  a 
refreshing  shade."— Foster. 

V. 

And  wide  the  plantain's  arms  were  spread,  &c. 

"Plantain-trees  are  supposed  to  prevent  the  plague  from  visiting 
places,  where  they  are  found  in  abundance."— Middletori's  Geography. 

VI. 

Knelt  the  once  haughty  Subahdar,  &c. 
"  Subahdar,  or  Governor." 

VII. 

Since  Amir  Khan  first  blessed  the  hour,  &c. 

To  the  east  of  this  delightful  spot  is  a  fortified  palace,  erected  by 
Amir  Khan,  a  Persian,  who  was  once  Governor  of  Cashmere.  He 
used  to  pass  much  of  his  time  in  this  residence,  which  was  curiously 
adapted  to  every  species  of  Asiatic  luxury. — See  Encyclopedia,  vol.  v, 
Part  2. 

VIII. 

Through  the  long  walks  of  tzinnar  trees,  &c. 

"Their  walks  are  curiously  laid  out,  and  set  on  both  sides  with 
tzlnnar-trees,  a  species  of  poplar  unknown  in  Europe.  It  grows  to 
the  height  of  a  pine,  and  bears  a  fruit  resembling  the  chestnut,  and  it 
has  broad  leaves  like  those  of  the  vine." — Middleton's  Geography. 

IX. 

As  it  glides  o'er  the  wave  of  the  Wuller's  stream,  &c. 
A  beautiful  river  passes  through  Cashmere,  called  the  Ouller,  or 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  119 

Wuller.  There  is  an  outlet,  where  it  runs  with  greater  rapidity  and 
force  than  elsewhere,  between  two  steep  mountains,  whence  proceed 
ing,  after  a  long  course,  it  joins  with  the  Chclum. 

X. 

And  like  a  Star  on  Mahmoud's  wave,  &c. 

"It  appears  like  a  lake  covered  with  rocks  and  mountains.  Stones, 
when  thrown  in,  make  a  surprising  noise,  and  the  river  itself  is  deemed 
unfathomable." — Middleton's  Geography. 

XI. 

Proud  Hirney  Purvit  rears  his  head,  &c. 

There  is  an  oval  lake,  which  joins  the  Chelum  towards  the  east. — 
The  Yucht  Suliman  and  Hirney  Purvit  form  the  two  sides  of  what 
may  be  called  a  grand  portal  to  the  lake.  They  are  hills;  one  of  which 
is  sacred  to  the  great  Solyman. 


CHICOMICO 


THIS  Poem,  I  have  discovered  to  be  founded  on  the  following  actual 
occurrences:  During  the  Seminole  war,  Duncan  M.  Rimmon,  (the 
Rathmond  of  the  poem,)  a  Georgia  militiaman,  was  captured  by  the 
Indians.  Hillis-adjo,  their  chief,  condemned  him  to  death.  He  was 
bound;  but  while  the  instruments  of  torture  were  preparing,  the  ten- 
der-hearted  daughter  of  Hillis-adjo  (the  Chicomico  of  the  tale)  threw 
herself  between  the  prisoner  and  his  executioners,  and  interceded  with 
her  father  for  his  release.  She  was  successful.  His  life  was  spared. 
In  the  progress  of  the  war,  however,  it  was  the  fate  of  the  generous 
Hillis-adjo  (the  prophet  Francis)  himself  to  be  taken  a  prisoner  of  war, 
and  it  was  thought  necessary  to  put  him  to  death.  These  are  the  facts 
which  Miss  D.  has  wrought  up,  with  other  characters,  (probably  ficti 
tious,)  to  compose  the  whole  of  this  poem.  The  first  part  of  the  poem 
is  so  incomplete,  that  I  have  thought  it  best  to  introduce  the  reader 
immediately  to  the  second  part.  The  war  had  broken  out.  Chico 
mico  had  solicited  the  presence  of  Ornpahaw,  a  venerable  chief,  to  aid 
her  father  Hillis-adjo  against  the  whites,  with  Rathmond  at  their  head. 
The  battle  is  described,  the  Indians  are  victorious,  and  Rathmond  is 
taken  prisoner.  Here  the  second  part  commences. 

EDITOR. 


CHICOMICO.    :^,.; 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

PART  II. 

WHAT  sight  of  horror,  fear  and  wo, 
Now  greets  chief  Hillis-ha-ad-joe? 
What  thought  of  blood  now  lights  his  eye? 
What  victim  foe  is  doomed  to  die? 
For  his  cheek  is  flushed  and  his  air  is  wild, 
And  he  cares  not  to  look  on  his  only  child. 
His  lip  quivers  with  rage,  his  eye  flashes  fire, 
And  his  bosom  beats  high  with  a  tempest  of  ire. 
Alas!  'tis  Rathmond  stands  a  prisoner  now, 
Awaiting  death  from  Hillis-ha-ad-joe, 
From  Hillis-ha-ad-joe,  the  stern,  the  dread, 
To  whose  vindictive,  cruel,  savage  mind, 
Loss  after  loss  fast  following  from  behind, 
Had  only  added  thirst  insatiate  for  blood; 
And  now  he  swore  by  all  his  heart  held  dear, 
That  limb  from  limb  his  victims  he  would  tear. 

But  ah!  young  Rathmond 's  case  what  tongue  can  tell? 
Upon  his  hapless  fate  what  heart  can  dwell? 


126  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

To  die  when  manhood  dawns  in  rosy  light, 

To  be  cut  off  in  all  the  bloom  of  life, 
To  view  the  cup  untasted  snatched  from  sight, 

Is  sure  a  thought  with  horror  doubly  rife. 
Alas,  poor  youth!  how  sad,  how  faint  thy  heart! 

When  memory  paints  the  forms  endeared  by  love; 
From  these  so  soon,  so  horribly  to  part; 

Oh!  it  would  almost  savage  bosoms  move! 
But  unextinguished  Hope  still  lit  his  breast, 
And  aimless  still, drew  scenes  of  future  rest! 
Caught  at  each  distant  light  which  dimly  gleamed, 
Though  sinking  'mid  th'  abyss  o'er  which  it  beamed! 
Like  the  poor  mariner,  who,  tossed  around, 
Strains  his  dim  eye  to  ocean's  farthest  bound, 
Paints,  in  each  snowy  wave,  assistance  near, 
And  as  it  rolls  away,  gives  up  to  fear: 
Dreads  to  look  round,  for  death's  on  every  side, 
The  low'ring  clouds  above  the  ocean  wide: 
He  wails  alone — "  and  scarce  forbears  to  weep,"* 
That  his  wreck'd  bark  still  lingers  on  the  deep! 

E'en  to  the  child  of  penury  and  wo, 

Who  knows  no  friend  that  o'er  his  grave  will  weep, 
Whose  tears  in  childhood's  hour  were  taught  to  flow, 

Looks  with  dismay  across  death's  horrid  deep! 
Then,  when  suspended  o'er  that  awful  brink, 

Snatched  from  each  joy,  which  opening  life  may  give, 
Who  would  not  from  the  prospect  shuddering  shrink, 

And  murmur  out  one  hope-fraught  prayer  "to  live!" 

*  Campbell. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  127 

But,  see!  the  captive  is  now  dragged  along, 

While  round  him  mingle  yell  and  wild  war-song! 

The  ring  is  formed  around  the  high  raised  pile, 

Fagot  o'er  fagots  reared  with  savage  toil; 

Th'  impatient  warriors  watch  with  burning  brands, 

To  toss  the  death-signs  from  their  ruthless  hands! 

Nearer,  and  nearer  still  the  wretch  is  drawn, 

All  hope  of  life,  of  rescue,  now  is  gone! 

A  horrid  death  is  placed  before  his  eyes; 

In  fancy  now  he  sees  the  flames  arise, 

He  hears  the  deaf'ning  yell  which  drowns  the  cry 

Of  the  poor  victim's  last,  dire  agony! 

His  heart  was  sick,  he  strove  in  vain  to  pray 

To  that  great  God,  before  whose  awful  bar 
His  lighten'd  soul  was  soon  to  wing  its  way 

From  this  sad  world  to  other  realms  afar! 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven's  blue  arch  above, 
That  pure  retreat  of  mercy  and  of  love; 
When,  lo!  two  fellow-sufferers  caught  his  eye, 
The  prophet  Montonoc  is  doom'd  to  die! 
His  haughty  spirit  now  must  be  brought  low, 
Long  had  he  been  the  chieftain's  direst  foe: 
The  Indian's  face  was  wrapped  in  mystic  gloom, 
As  on  they  led  him  to  his  horrid  doom. 
A  hectic  flush  upon  his  dark  cheek  burned, 
His  eye  nor  to  the  right  nor  left  hand  turned: 
His  lip  nor  quivered,  nor  turned  pale  with  fear, 
Though  the  death-note  already  met  his  ear. 
Tall  and  majestic  was  his  noble  mien, 
Erect,  he  seemed  to  brave  the  foeman's  ire, 


128  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

His  step  was  bold,  his  features  all  serene 
As  he  approached  the  steep  funereal  pyre! 

Close  at  his  side,  a  figure  glided  slow, 

Clad  in  the  dark  habiliments  of  wo, 

Whose  form  was  shrouded  in  a  mantle's  fold, 

All,  save  one  treacherous  ringlet, — bright  as  gold. 

The  death-song's  louder  note  shrill  peals  on  high, 

A  signal  that  the  victim  soon  must  die! 

While  yell  and  war-note  join  the  chorus  still, 

Till  the  wild  dirge  rebounds  from  hill  to  hill! 

Rathmond  now  turned  to  snatch  a  last  sad  gaze, 

Ere  closed  life's  curtain  o'er  his  youthful  days; 

When  he  beheld  the  dark,  the  piercing  eye 

Of  Montonoc,  the  prophet  doomed  to  die, 

Bent  upon  him  with  such  a  steady  gaze, 

That  not  more  fixed  was  death's  own  horrid  glaze! 

Then  lifting  his  long  swarthy  finger  high, 

To  where  the  sun's  bright  beams  just  tinged  the  sky, 

And  o'er  the  parting  day  its  glories  spread, 

Which  was  to  close  when  their  sad  souls  had  fled, — 

"White  man,"  he  cried,  in  low  mysterious  tone, 

Caught  but  by  Rathmond's  listening  ear  alone, 

"  Ere  the  bright  eye  of  yon  red  orb  shall  sleep, 

This  haughty  chief  his  fallen  tribe  shall  weep!" 

He  said  no  more,  for  lo!  the  death-yells  cease. 

'Tis  hushed!  no  sound  is  echoed  through  the  place! 

The  opening  ring  disclosed  a  female  there, 

In  a  rich  mantle  shrouded,  save  her  hair, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  129 

Which  long  and  dark,  luxuriant  round  her  hung, 
With  many  a  clear,  white  pearl  and  dew-drop  strung! 

She  threw  back  the  mantle  which  shaded  her  face, 
She  spoke  not,  but  looked  the  pale  spirit  of  wo! 

The  angel  of  mercy!  the  herald  of  grace! 
Knelt  the  sorrowful  daughter  of  Hillis-ad-joe! 

"  My  father!  my  father!"  the  maiden  exclaims, 

"Oh  doom  not  the  white  man  to  die  midst  the  flames! 

'Tis  thy  daughter  who  kneels!  'tis  Chicomico  sues! 

Can  my  father,  the  friend  of  my  childhood,  refuse? — 

This  heart  is  the  white  man's!  with  him  will  I  die! 

With  him,  to  the  Great  Spirit's  mansion  I'll  fly! 

The  flames  which  to  heaven  will  waft  his  pure  souls 

Round  the  form  of  thy  daughter  encircling  shall  roll! 

My  life  is  his  life — his  fate  shall  be  mine; 

For  his  image  around  thy  child's  heart  will  entwine?" 

Man's  breast  may  be  cruel,  and  savage,  and  stern; 
From  the  sufferings  of  others  it  heedless  may  turn; 
To  the  pleadings  of  want,  to  the  wan  face  of  wo, 
To  the  sorrow-wrung  drops  which  around  it  may  flow, 
But  'twill  melt  like  the  snow  on  the  Appenine's  breast, 
As  the  sunbeam  falls  light,  on  its  fancy-crowned  crest, 
When  the  voice  of  a  child  to  its  cold  ear  is  given, 
Filled  with  sorrow's  sad  notes  like  the  music  of  Heaven. 

"  Loose  the  white  man,"  the  king  in  an  agony  cried, 
"My  child  what  you  plead  for,  can  ne'er  be  denied! 
The  pris'ner  is  yours!  to  enslave  or  to  free! 
I  yield  him,  Chicomico,  wholly  to  thee; 
9 


130  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  remember!"  he  cried,  while  pride  conquered  his 

wo, 

"Remember,  thy  father  is  Hillis-ad-joe!" 
He  frowned,  and  his  brow,  like  the  curtains  of  night, 
Looked  darker,  when  tinged  by  a  moon-beam  of  light; 
Chicomico  saw — she  saw,  and  with  dread, 
The  storm,  which  returning,  might  burst  o'er  her  head ; 
And  quickly  to  Rathmond  she  turned  with  a  sigh, 
While  a  love-brightened  tear  veiled  her  heavenly  eye. 

"  Go,  white  man,  go!  without  a  fear; 

Remember  you  to  one  are  dear; 

Go!  and  may  peace  your  steps  attend;  • 

Chicomico  will  be  your  friend. 

To-morrow  eve,  with  us  may  close 

Joyful,  and  free  from  cares  or  woes; 

To-morrow  eve  may  also  end, 

And  find  me  here  without  a  friend! 

Remember  then  the  Indian  maid, 

Whose  voice  the  burning  brand  hath  stayed! 

But  should  I  be,  as  now  I  am, 

And  thou  in  prison  and  in  wo, 
Think  that  this  heart  is  still  the  same, 

And  turn  thee  to  Chicomico! 
Then,  go!  yes  go!  while  yet  you  may, 
Dread  death  awaits  you,  if  you  stay! 
May  the  Great  Spirit  guard  and  guide 
Your  footsteps  through  the  forest  wide!" 

She  said,  and  wrapped  the  mantle  near 
Her  fragile  form,  with  hasty  hand, 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

Just  bowed  her  head,  and  shed  one  tear, 
Then  sped  him  to  his  native  land. 

The  wind  is  swift,  and  mountain  hart, 
From  huntsman's  bow,  the  feathered  dart; 
But  swifter  far  the  pris'ner's  flight, 
When  freed  from  dungeon-chains  and  night! 
So  Rathmond  felt,  but  wished  to  show 
How  much  he  owed  Chicomico; 
But  she  had  fled;  she  did  not  hear! 
She  did  not  mark  the  grateful  tear, 
Which  quivered  in  the  hero's  eye; 
Nor  did  she  catch  the  half-breathed  sigh; 
And  Heaven  alone  could  hear  the  prayer, 
Which  Rathmond's  full  heart  proffered  there. 


132  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


PART  III. 

WHILE  swift  on  his  way  young  Rathmond  sped, 
Death's  horrors  awaited  those  he  fled. 
Already  were  the  prisoners  bound, 

One  word,  and  every  torch  would  fly; 
No  step  was  heard  nor  feeblest  sound, 

Save  the  death-raven's  wing  on  high! 
The  sign  was  given,  each  blazing  brand 
Like  lightning,  shot  from  every  hand; 
The  crackling,  sparkling  fagots  blazed, — 
Then  Montonoc  his  dark  eye  raised; 
He  whistled  shrill — an  answering  call 
Told  that  each  foeman  then  should  fall! 
Sudden  a  band  of  warriors  flew 
From  earth,  as  if  from  earth  they  grew. 
The  brake,  the  fern,  and  hazel-down, 
Blazed  brightly  in  the  sinking  sun; 
Confusion,  blood,  and  carnage  then 
Spread  their  broad  pinions  o'er  the  glen; 
The  blazing  brands  were  quenched  in  blood, 
And  Montonoc  unshackled  stood ! 
He  paused  one  moment — dark  he  frowned, 
By  dire  revenge  and  slaughter  crowned; 


T-      POETICAL  REMAINS.  133 

Then  bent  his  bow,  let  loose  the  dart, 
And  pierced  the  foeman  Chieftain's  heart. 
Yes,  Montonoc,  thy  arrow  sped, 
For  Hillis-ha-ad-joe  is  dead! 

And  now  within  their  hidden  tent, 
The  conquered  make  their  sad  lament; 
Before  them  lay  their  slaughtered  king, 
While  slowly  round  they  form  the  ring; 
Dread  e'en  in  death,  the  Chieftain's  form 
Seemed  made  to  stride  the  whirlwind  storm; 
Upon  his  brow  a  dreadful  frown 
Still  lingered  as  the  warrior's  crown; 
And  yet  it  seemed  as  mortal  ire 
Still  sparkled  in  that  eye  of  fire, 
And  blazing,  soon  should  light  the  face 
O'er  which  death's  shadow  held  its  place, 
And  like  the  lightning  'neath  a  cloud, 
Shoot,  flaming  from  its  sable  shroud. 
But,  hark!  low  notes  of  sorrow  break 
The  solemn  calm,  and  o'er  the  lake, 
Float  on  the  bosom  of  the  gale; 
Hark!  'tis  the  Chieftain's  funeral  wail! 

Fallen,  fallen,  fallen  low 

Lies  great  Hillis-ha-ad-joe! 

To  the  land  of  the  dead, 

By  the  white  man  sped! 

In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome  him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow,  and  the  antlered  deer! 


134  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Fallen  is  Hillis-ha-ad-joe! 

Chaunt  his  death-dirge  sad  and  slow; 

In  the  battle  he  fell,  in  the  fight  he  died, 

And  many  a  brave  warrior  sunk  by  his  side. 
In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome  him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow,  and  the  antlered  deer. 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  deep, 

Our  "mighty  fallen  one"  we  weep; 

Fallen  is  Hillis-ha-ad-joe! 

The  axe  has  laid  our  broad  oak  low! 
In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome  him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow,  and  the  antlered  deer. 

The  last  sad  note  had  sunk  on  the  breeze, 

Which  mournfully  sighed  among  the  dark  trees, 

When  a  form  thickly  shrouded,  swift  glided  along, 

But  joined  not  her  voice  to  the  funeral  song. 

When  the  notes  ceased,  she  knelt,  and  in  accents  of  wo. 

Besought  the  Great  Spirit  for  Hillis-ad-joe. 

Her  words  were  but  few,  and  her  manner  was  wild, 

For  she   was  the  slaughtered  Chief's  poor  orphan 

child! 

She  raised  her  dark  eye  to  the  sun  sinking  red, 
She  looked,  and  that  glance  told  that  reason  had  fled ! 

Why  does  thy  eye  roll  wild,  Chicomico? 
Why  dost  thou  shake  like  aspen's  quivering  bough? 
Why  o'er  that  fine  brow  streams  thy  raven  hair? 
Read!  for  the  "  wreck  of  reason's  written  there!" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  135 

'Tis  true!  the  storm  was  high,  the  surges  wild, 
And  reason  fled  the  Chieftain's  orphan  child! 
Thou  poor  heart-broken  wretch  on  life's  wild  sea, 
Say!  who  is  left  to  love,  to  comfort  thee? 
All,  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  left  alone, 
Like  the  last  rose,  by  autumn  rudely  blown. 

But  she  has  fled,  the  wild  and  winged  wind 
Is  by  her  left,  long  loitering  far  behind! 
But  whither  has  she  fled?  to  wild-wood  glen, 
Far  from  the  cares,  the  joys,  the 'haunts  of  men! 
Her  bed  the  rock,  her  drink  the  ripp'ling  stream, 
And  murdered  friends  her  ever  constant  dream! 
Her  wild  death-song  is  wafted  on  the  gale, 
Which  echoes  round  the  Chieftain's  funeral  wail! 
Her  little  skiff  she  paddles  o'er  the  lake, 
And  bids  "  the  Daughter  of  the  Voice,"  awake ! 
From  hill  to  hill  the  shrieking  echoes  run, 
To  greet  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun. 


136  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


PART  IV. 

THE  lake  is  calm,  the  sun  is  low, 

The  whippoorwill  is  chaunting  slow, 

And  scarce  a  leaf  through  the  forest  is  seen 

To  wave  in  the  breeze  its  rich  mantle  of  green. 

Fit  emblem  of  a  guiltless  mind, 

The  glassy  waters  calmly  lie; 
Unruffled  by  a  breath  of  wind, 

Which  o'er  its  shining  breast  may  sigh! 
The  shadow  of  the  forest  there 

Upon  its  bosom  soft  may  rest; 
The  eagle-heights,  which  tower  in  air, 

May  cast  their  dark  shades  o'er  its  breast. 

But  hark!  approaching  paddles  break 
The  stillness  of  that  azure  lake! 
Swift  o'er  its  surface  glides  the  bark, 
Like  lightning's  flash,  like  meteor  spark. 
It  seem'd,  as  on  the  light  skiff  flew, 
As  it  scarce  kissed  the  wave's  deep  blue, 
Which,  dimpling  round  the  vessel's  side, 
Sparkled  and  whirled  in  eddies  wide! 

Who  guides  it  through  the  yielding  lake? 
Who  dares  its  magic  calm  to  break? 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  137 

'Tis  Montonoc!  his  piercing  eye 

Is  raised  to  where  the  western  hill 
Rears  its  broad  forehead  to  the  sky, 

Battling  the  whirlwind's  fury  still. 

'Twas  Montonoc,  and  with  him  there 
Was  that  strange  form,  with  golden  hair! 
Wrapped  in  the  self-same  garb,  as  when 
Surrounded  by  those  savage  men, 
The  stranger  had,  with  Montonoc, 
Been  led  before  the  blazing  stake! 
Swift,  swift,  the  light  skiff  forward  flew, 
Till  it  had  crossed  the  waters  blue; 
Both  leaped  like  lightning  to  the  land, 
And  left  the  skiff  upon  the  strand; 
Far  mid  the  forest  then  they  fled, 
And  mingled  with  its  dark  brown  shade. 

The  oak's  broad  arms  in  the  breeze  were  creaking, 
The  bird  of  the  gloomy  brow  was  shrieking, 
When  a  note  on  the  night-wind  was  wafted  along, 
A  note  of  the  dead  Chieftain's  funeral  song. 
A  form  was  seen  wandering  in  frantic  wo, 
'Twas  the  maniac  daughter  of  Hillis-ad-joe! 
Her  dark  hair  was  borne  on  the  night-wind  afar, 
And  she  sung  the  wild  dirge  of  the  Blood-hound  of 
War! 

She  ceased  when  she  came  near  the  breeze-ruffled 

lake; 
She  ceased — was't  the  wind  sighing  o'er  the  long 

brake? 


138  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Was't  the  soft  rippling  wave? — was't  the  murmur  of 

trees? 
Which  bending,  were  brushed  by  the  wing  of  the 

breeze? 

Ah,  no!  for  she  shrieked,  as  her  piercing  eye  caught 
A  form,  which  her  frenzied  brain  never  forgot! — 
'Twas  Rathmond!  yes,  Rathmond  before  her  now 

stood, 
And  he  glanced  his  full  eye  on  the  child  of  the  wood. 

"  Chicomico!"  he  cried,  his  voice  sad  and  low, 

"  Chicomico!  we  are  the  children  of  wo! 

Oh,  come,  then!  oh,  come!  and  thy  Rathmond's  strong 

arm 

Shall  shelter  thee  ever  from  danger  and  harm; 
'Tis  true,  I  have  loved  with  the  passion  of  youth! 
I  have  loved;  and  let  Heaven  attest  with  what  truth! 
But,  Cordelia,  thy  ashes  are  mixed  with  the  dead — " 
(Here  his  eye  flashed  more  fierce,  and  his  pale  cheek 

turned  red) 

"  'Twas  thy  father,  Chicomico — yes,  'twas  thy  sire, 
Who  kindled  the  loved  saint's  funereal  pyre! 
But,  'tis  passed" — (and  he  crossed  his  cold,  quivering 

hand 

O'er  a  brow  that  was  burning  like  Zahara's  sand,) 
"'Tis  pass'd! — and  Chicomico,  thou  didst  preserve 
The  life  of  a  wretch,  who  now  never  can  love! 
That  life  is  thy  own,  with  a  heart,  that  though  chilled 
To  passion's  soft  throb,  is  with  gratitude  filled! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  139 

She  turned  her  dark  eye,  from  which  reason's  bright 

fire 

Had  fled,  with  the  ghosts  of  her  friends — of  her  sire; 
"Young  Eagle!"  she  cried,  "when  my  father  was 

slain, 

What  white  man,  who  ravaged  along  that  dread  plain, 
Withheld  the  dire  blow,  and  plead  for  the  life 
Of  Hillis-ad-joe? — and  say,  who  in  that  strife, 
Stayed  the  arm  that  bereft  me,  and  left  me  alone? 
Yes,  Young  Eagle!  my  father,  my  brothers  are  gone! 
Wouldst  thou  ask  me  to  linger  behind  them,  while  they 
To  yon  Heaven  in  the  west  are  wending  their  way! 
And,  hark!  the  Great  Spirit,  whose  voice  sounds  on 

high, 

Bids  me  come!  and  see,  white  man,  how  gladly  I  fly!" 
More  swift  than  the  deer,  when  the  hounds  are  in 

view, 

To  the  bark,  that  was  stranded,  Chicomico  flew! 
She  dashed  the  light  oar  in  the  waves'  foaming  spray, 
And  thus  wildly  she  sung,  as  she  darted  away: 

"  I  go  to  the  land  in  the  west, 

The  Great  Spirit  calls  me  away! 
To  the  land  of  the  just  and  the  blest, 

The  Great  Spirit  points  me  the  way! 

"  Like  snow  on  the  mountain's  crest, 

Like  foam  on  the  fountain's  breast, 
Hillis-ad-joe,  and  his  kinsmen  have  passed! 

Like  the  sun's  setting  ray  in  the  west, 
When  it  sinks  on  the  wave  to  rest, 
The  dead  Chieftain's  daughter  is  coming  at  last! 


140  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

a  Too  long  has  she  lingered  behind, 

Awaiting  the  Great  Spirit's  voice! 
But  hark!  it  calls  load  in  the  wind, 

And  Chicomico  now  will  rejoice! 

"  I  go  to  the  land  in  the  west: 

The  Great  Spirit  calls  me  away! 
To  the  land  of  the  jnst  and  the  blest 

The  Great  Spirit  points  me  the  way!" 

The  wild  notes  sank  apon  the  gale, 

And  echo  caught  them  not  again! 
For  the  breeze  which  bore  the  maiden's  wail; 

Wafted  afar  the  last  sad  strain! 

'Twas  said,  that  shrieking  'mid  the  storm, 

The  maiden  oft  was  seen  to  glide, 
And  oft  the  hunters  mark'd  her  form, 

As  swift  she  darted  through  the  tide. 

And  once  along  the  calm  lake  shore, 
Her  light  canoe  she  was  seen  to  guide, 

But  the  maid  and  her  bark  are  seen  no  more 
To  float  along  the  rippling  tide. 

For  the  billows  foamed,  and  the  winds  did  roar, 
And  her  lamp,  as  it  glimmered  amid  the  storm 

A  moment  blazed  bright,  and  was  seen  no  more, 
For  it  sunk  'mid  the  waves  with  her  maniac  form! 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


THE     FAREWELL. 

Adieu,  Chicomico,  adieu; 

Soft  may'si  thou  sleep  amid  the  wave, 
And  'neath  thy  canopy  of  blue 

May  sea-maids  deck  thy  coral  grave. 

'Twas  but  a  feeble  voice  which  sung 
Thy  hapless  tale  of  youthful  wo; 

But  ah !  that  weak,  that  infant  tongue 
Will  ne'er  another  story  know. 

And  tho'  the  rough  and  foaming  surge, 
And  the  wild  whirlwind  whistling  o'er, 

Should  rudely  chaunt  thy  funeral  dirge, 
And  send  the  notes  from  shore  to  shore; 

Still  shall  one  voice  be  heard,  above 
The  dreadful  "  music  of  the  spheres!" 

The  voice  of  one  whose  song  is  love, 
Embalrrrd  by  sorrow's  saddest  tears. 


142  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


PART  V. 

THE  fourth  day  found  the  dark  tribe  brooding  o'er 

Their  Chieftain's  body,  Chieftain  now  no  more! 

As  fire  half-quench'd,  some  faint  spark  lives, 

Glimmers,  half  dies,  and  then  revives, 

Revives  to  kindle  far  and  wide, 

And  spread  with  devastating  stride; 

So  glimmered,  so  revived,  so  spread 

The  mourners'  rage  around  the  dead! 

Their  quivers  o'er  their  shoulders  flung, 

Up  rose  the  aged  and  the  young; 

And  swore,  as  tenants  of  the  wood, 

By  all  their  hearts  held  dear  or  good, 

That,  ere  another  sun  should  rise, 

Their  slaughtered  foes  should  glut  their  eyes. 

They  swore  revenge  and  bloodshed  too, 

As  their  slain  Chieftain's  rightful  due, 

They  swore  that  blood  should  freely  flow 

For  their  poor,  lost  Chicomico ! 

'Twas  evening:  all  was  fair  and  still; 
The  orb  of  night  now  sparkling  on  the  rill; 
Now  glittering  o'er  the  fern,  and  water-brake, 
Cast  its  broad  eye-beam  o'er  the  lake! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  143 

Far  through  the  forest,  where  no  footpath  lay, 

Old  Montonoc  pursued  his  onward  way; 

The  fair-haired  stranger  hung  upon  his  arm, 

Shook  at  each  noise,  and  trembled  with  alarm; 

"  Well  do  I  know  the  woodland  way, 

For  I  have  tracked  it  many  a  day, 

When  mountain  bear  or  wilder  deer 

Have  called  me  to  this  forest  drear. 

Fear'st  thou  with  Montonoc  to  stray, 

Why  wand'rest  thou  so  far  away, 

From  friends,  from  safety,  and  from  home, 

To  war,  and  weariness,  and  gloom? 

Thou  must  not  hope,  as  yet,  to  bear 

Free  from  disguise  that  form  so  dear; 

It  must  not,  and  it  will  not  be, 

Till,  buried  in  the  dark  Monee, 

The  last  of  yonder  tribe  of  blood, 

Lies  weltering  in  the  sable  flood! 

But  rest  thee  on  this  fresh  green  seat, 

And  I  will  trace  his  wandering  feet; 

Warn  him  to  watch  the  lurking  foe, 

Whose  bloody  breasts  for  vengeance  glow; 

Then  rest  thee  here;  within  yon  dell 

I  saw  his  form,  and  knew  him  well !" 

Thus  spoke  the  prophet  of  the  wood, 
As  near  the  stranger  maid  he  stood. 

"  Then  go,"  she  cried,  half-faltering,  "go! 
Bid  him  beware  the  bloody  foe ! 


144  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  give  me,  ere  we  part,"  she  cried, 

"  Yon  blood-stained  death-blade  from  your  side; 

Perhaps  this  arm,  though  weak,  may  find 

Strength,  in  the  hour  of  deep  distress; 
Go!  my  preserver,  and  my  friend, 

May  Heaven  thy  steps  and  efforts  bless!" 

Cautious  and  swift  the  Indian  went; 
His  head  was  raised,  his  bow  was  bent, 
And  as  he  on,  like  wild-deer,  sped, 
So  light,  so  silent,  was  his  tread, 
That  scarce  a  leaf  was  heard  to  move, 
Of  flower  below,  or  branch  above! 

Where  Rathmond,  with  a  heart  of  wo, 

Had  gazed  on  lost  Chicomico, 

There,  on  that  spot,  the  prophet's  eye 

Mark'd  the  young  warrior's  farewell  sigh. 

"  Why  lingerest  thou  here,  Young  Eagle,"  he  cried, 

"  The  foe  'neath  the  fern,  and  the  dark  hazel  hide ! 

Blood,  blood!  be  our  war-cry,  for  vengeance  is  theirs! 

Their  arrows  are  winged  by  despair  and  by  fears! 

When  the  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe, 

Hath  plunged  him  beneath  the  deep  waters  below, 

Thy  heart  shall  possess  all  it  wishes  for  here, 

Unchilled  by  a  sigh,  unbedewed  by  a  tear! 

But  till  then,  cold  and  vacant  thy  bosom  shall  be, 

And  the  idol  to  which  thou  hast  bended  thy  knee, 

Shall  mark  thee,  and  love  thee,  in  peril  and  wo, 

Yet  till  then  that  dear  being  thou  never  shall  know!" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  145 

"  What  meanest  thou,  prophet  of  the  eagle-eye, 
By  thy  mysterious  prophecy? 
Well  knowest  thou  that  yon  bloody  chief 
Doomed  her  to  death,  and  me  to  grief! 
That  round  that  form,  the  wild  flames  rolled, 
And  wafted  far  her  angel  soul ! 
Why  didst  thou  not  arrest  the  brand? 
For,  prophet,  fate  was  in  thy  hand." 

"'Tis  well,"  the  Indian  calmly  said, 
"  'Tis  well/'  and  bowed  to  earth  his  head; 
"  But,"  he  exclaimed,  with  eye  less  grave, 
"  I  left  a  skiff  on  yonder  wave — 
Say,  dark-eyed  Eagle,  dost  thou  know 
Aught  of  the  dire,  blood-thirsty  foe?" 

"  No,  Montonoc!  no  foe  was  she, 
Who  plunged  adown  the  swift  Monee. 
Chicomico  is  cold  and  damp! 
The  wave  her  couch — the  moon  her  lamp; 
But  mark!  adown  the  foaming  stream 
The  barks  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam! 
What  bode  they?  or  of  weal,  or  wo? 
Do  they  betoken  friend  or  foe? 
Perchance  to  rouse  the  wild  wood  deer 
The  Indian  hunters  landed  there." 

Back  they  retraced  their  steps,  till  from  the  hill 
A  female  shriek  rang  loud,  distinct,  and  shrill! 
Both  start,  both  stop,  and  Montonoc's  dark  eye 
Flashed  like  a  meteor  of  the  northern  sky. — 
10 


146  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  hark!  what  cry  of  savage  joy  is  there, 
Borne  through  the  forest  on  the  midnight  air? 

It  is  the  foe! — the  band  of  blood-hounds  came, 

Who  erst  had  lit  the  Chieftain's  funeral  flame! 

Revenge  and  death  around  their  arrows  gleam, 

And  murder  shudders  'neath  the  moon's  pale  beam! 

The  fiercest  warrior  of  their  tribe,  their  chief, 

Sage  in  the  council,  bloody  in  the  strife, 

High  towered  dark  Wompaw's  snowy  plume  in  air, 

Waved  on  the  breeze,  and  shone  a  beacon  there! 

Old  Ompahaw,  with  brow  of  fire, 

And  bosom  burning  high  with  ire, 

And  sparkling  eye,  and  burning  brand, 

Which  gleamed  athwart  both  lake  and  strand, 

Still  echoed  back  the  lengthened  yell 

Which  startled  wildwood,  rock,  and  dell! 

And  more  were  there,  so  sad,  so  wild, 

Nature  might  shudder  at  her  child, 

And  curse  the  hand  that  e'er  had  made 

So  dark  a  stain,  so  deep  a  shade ! 

On,  on  they  flew,  with  lengthened  stride, 

But,  ah!  the  victims,  where  are  they? — 
Naught  but  the  lake  lies  open  wide, 

And  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay! 
But,  ah!  'tis  well:— that  shrill  shriek  toll'd 

The  death-knell  of  their  chief  once  more! 
Yes,  Rathmond,  yes,  the  deed  was  bold, 

That  stretched  yon  white  plume  on  the  shore! 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

Safe  crouched'  neath  fern-bush,  dark,  and  low, 

Rathmond  had  truly  bent  his  bow, 

And  Montonoc,  with  steady  eye, 

From  'mid  the  oak's  arms  broad  and  high, 

Took  aim  as  sure;  his  arrows  sped, 

And  many  a  bloody  foe  is  dead! 

Wide  tumult  spreads! — afar  they  fly, 

Each  rustling  brake,  which  meets  the  eye, 

Seems  shrouding  still  some  warrior  there, 

With  bloody  brand  and  eye  of  fire. 

Slow  dropping  from  his  safe  retreat, 

The  prophet  glides  to  Rathmond's  seat; 

Then  raised  loud  yells  of  various  tone, 

Such  as  are  given  at  victory  won, 

And  Rathmond  joined,  till  long  and  high, 

Rang  the  loud  chorus  to  the  sky! 

Hark!  o'er  the  rocks,  the  shrieks  are  answered  wild, 

Can  it  be  Echo,  Nature's  darling  child? 

No — 'tis  a  whoop  of  horror  and  despair, 

Which  knows  no  sympathy,  which  sheds  no  tear! 

Lo!  on  yon  cliff,  which  frowns  above  the  wave, 
Mark  the  stern  warriors  hovering  o'er  their  grave! 
'Tis  done:  the  sullen  bosom  of  the  bay 
Opens  and  closes  o'er  its  sinking  prey! 

One  hollow  splashing,  as  the  waters  part, 
Sad  welcome  of  the  victim  to  his  bed, 

One  mournful,  shuddering  echo,  and  the  heart 
Turns,  chilled,  at  length,  from  scenes  of  death  and 
dread! 


148  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  ah!  like  some  sad  spectre  lingering  near, 
A  form  still  hovers  o'er  the  scene  of  wo; — 

Does  it  await  its  hour  of  vengeance  here, 
Watching  the  cold  forms  weltering  below? 

The  morn  was  dawning  slowly  in  the  east, 

A  few  faint  gleams  of  light  were  bursting  through, 

When  the  dread  warriors  sought  the  lake's  calm  breast, 
And  sullen  sunk  amid  its  waters  blue! 

That  rude,  wild  phantom  hovering  there, 
Poised  on  the  precipice  mid-way  in  air, 
Like  some  stern  spirit  of  the  dead, 
Rising  indignant  from  its  bed, 
Was  Ompahaw!  alone,  he  stood, 
Gazing  on  Heaven,  on  hill,  and  wood! 
His  eye  was  wilder  than  the  eagle's  glare; 
Its  glance  was  triumph  mingled  with  despair! 
Far  floated  on  the  breeze  his  plumes  of  red, 
Waving  in  warlike  pride  around  his  head; 
His  bow  was  aimless,  bent  within  his  hand; 
His  seal  ping-knife  was  gleaming  in  its  band; 
And  his  gay  dress,  bedecked  for  battle's  storm, 
Was  wildly  fluttering  round  his  warrior-form! 

"Farewell!"  he  cried,  "this  aged  hand 
Draws  the  last  bow-string  of  our  band!" 
He  spoke,  and,  sudden  as  the  lightning's  glance, 
The  dart,  one  moment,  o'er  the  waters  danced; 
Like  comet's  blaze,  like  shooting  star, 
It  danced  across  the  waters  far! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  149 


Foaming,  death's  herald,  a  last,  bright  farewell! 
Then  from  his  belt  his  tomahawk  he  tore, 
"  Man  shall  ne'er  stain  thy  blade  again  with  gore!" 
Then  raised  on  high  his  arm,  and  wildly  sung 
The  death-song  of  his  tribe,  till  nature  rung! 

THE  DEATH-SONG. 

"The  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe 

Falls  not  by  the  hand  of  the  bloody  foe! 
But  they  fled  to  the  Heaven  of  peace  in  the  west, 
The  Great  Spirit  called,  and  they  flew  to  be  blessed! 

"  From  the  dark  rock's  frowning  brow 

They  flew  to  the  deep  below; 

They  feared  not,  for  the  Heaven  of  peace  in  the  west 
Was  smiling  them  welcome,  sweet  welcome  to  rest! 

«  The  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe 

Now  plunges  him  'mid  the  deep  waters  below! 
I  come,  Great  Spirit,  take  me  to  thy  rest! 
Lo!  my  freed  soul  is  winged  towards  the  west!" 

'Tis  past!  the  rude,  wild  sons  of  Nature  sleep, 
Calm,  undisturbed,  amid  the  waters  deep! 
'Tis  past! — the  deed  is  done,  the  tribe  has  gone! 
Not  one  is  left  to  mourn  it,  no,  not  one ! 

The  last  of  all  that  tribe  of  blood 
Lies  weltering  in  the  sable  flood ! 


150  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Oh!  where  is  yonder  fair-haired  maid? 
Say,  whither  hath  the  lone  one  strayed? 
'Mid  the  wild  tumult  of  the  strife, 
Where  fled  she  from  the  seal  ping-knife? 
Angels  around  her  spread  their  arm, 
And  shrouded  her  from  fear  and  harm! 
But  oh!  what  shriek  rang  shrill  and  clear, 
And  echoed  still  in  Rathmond's  ear? 
Why  should  he  note  that  voice,  that  scream? 
Was  it  his  fancy,  or  a  dream? 
Or  was  it — hope  illumed  his  eye, 
And  pointed  to  the  prophecy ! 

"  But  no! — 'twere  madness  to  return 
To  those  bright  scenes  of  joy,"  he  cried, 

"  Her  bones  are  whitening  in  the  sun, 
Her  ashes  scattered  far  and  wide!" 

But  where  is  Montonoc?  alone, 

Rathmond  is  musing  on  the  strand; 
Say,  whither  has  the  prophet  gone? 

Why  does  young  Rathmond  heedless  stand? 

Oh!  he  is  picturing  to  his  vacant  breast 
Those  scenes  of  joy,  those  moments  doubly  blessed, 
Which  youthful  hope  had  promised  should  be  his, 
When  all  was  light,  and  love,  and  cloudless  bliss! 
Oh!  he  was  sighing  o'er  the  dreary  waste, 

Left  in  that  bosom,  which  had  loved  so  well! 
Oh!  he  was  wishing  for  some  place  of  rest, 

Some  gloomy  cavern,  or  some  lonely  cell! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  151 

But,  ah!  the  voice  of  Montonoc  is  heard, 
Loud  as  the  notes  of  yonder  gloomy  bird! 
"  Eagle!"  he  cried,  "  the  fatal  charm  hath  passed! 
The  blood-red  tribe  have  darkly  sunk  at  last! 
And,  warrior,  now  I  yield  unto  thy  power 
The  latest  trophy  of  my  life's  last  hour! 
Deal  with  him  as  thou  wilt,  for  he  is  thine! 
But  mark!  'twas  I  who  gave,  for  he  was  mine! 
Adieu!  I  go!" — He  clos'd  his  fiery  eye, 
And  his  stem  spirit  flew  to  heaven  on  high! 

The  prisoner  sighed,  and  mutely  gazed  awhile 

Upon  the  fallen  prophet's  brow  of  toil, 

Then  towards  the  warrior  turned,  dropped  the  dark 

hood, 
And,  lo!  his  lost  Cordelia  before  her  Rathmond  stood! 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


CHARITY. 

A    VERSIFICATION  OP  PART    OP    THE  THIRTEENTH 
CHAPTER  OF  FIRST  CORINTHIANS. 

(Written  in  her  twelfth  year.) 

THOUGH  I  were  gifted  with  an  angel's  tongue, 
And  voice  like  that  with  which  the  prophets  sung, 
Yet  if  mild  charity  were  not  within, 
'Twere  all  an  impious  mockery  and  sin. 

Though  I  the  gift  of  prophecy  possessed, 
And  faith  like  that  which  Abraham  professed, 
They  all  were  like  a  tinkling  cymbal's  sound, 
If  meek-eyed  charity  did  not  abound. 

Though  I  to  feed  the  poor  my  goods  bestow, 
And  to  the  flames  my  body  I  should  throw, 
Yet  the  vain  act  would  never  cover  sin, 
If  heaven-born  charity  were  not  within. 


156  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


TO  SCIENCE. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Let  others  in  false  Pleasure's  court  be  found, 
But  may  I  ne'er  be  whirled  the  giddy  round; 
Let  me  ascend  with  Genius'  rapid  flight, 
Till  the  fair  hill  of  Science  meets  my  sight. 

Blest  with  a  pilot  who  my  feet  will  guide, 
Direct  my  way,  whene'er  I  step  aside; 
May  one  bright  ray  of  Science  on  me  shine, 
And  be  the  gift  of  learning  ever  mine. 


PLEASURE. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Away!  unstable,  fleeting  Pleasure, 
Thou  troublesome  and  gilded  treasure; 
When  the  false  jewel  changes  hue, 
There's  naught,  0  man,  that's  left  for  you! 
What  many  grasp  at  with  such  joy, 
Is  but  her  shade,  a  foolish  toy; 
She  is  not  found  at  every  court, 
At  every  ball,  and  every  sport, 
But  in  that  heart  she  loves  to  rest, 
That's  with  a  guiltless  conscience  blest. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  157 

THE  GOOD   SHEPHERD. 

("Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

The  Shepherd  feeds  his  fleecy  flock  with  care, 
And  mourns  to  find  one  little  lamb  has  strayed; 

He,  tmfatigued,  roams  through  the  midnight  air, 
O'er  hills,  o'er  rocks,  and  through  the  mossy  glade. 

But  when  that  lamb  is  found,  what  joy  is  seen 
Depicted  on  the  careful  shepherd's  face, 

When,  sporting  o'er  the  smooth  and  level  green, 
He  sees  his  fav'rite  charge  is  in  its  place. 

Thus  the  great  Shepherd  of  his  flock  doth  mourn, 
When  from  his  fold  a  wayward  lamb  has  strayed, 

And  thus  with  mercy  he  receives  him  home, 
When  the  poor  soul  his  Lord  has  disobeyed. 

There  is  great  joy  among  the  saints  in  heaven, 
When  one  repentant  soul  has  found  its  God, 

For  Christ,  his  Shepherd,  hath  his  ransom  given, 
And  sealed  it  with  his  own  redeeming  blood! 


158  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

LINES, 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  PROMISE  OP  REWARD. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Whene'er  the  muse  pleases  to  grace  my  dull  page, 
At  the  sight  of  reward,  she  flies  off  in  a  rage ; 
Prayers,  threats,  and  entreaties  I  frequently  try, 
But  she  leaves  me  to  scribble,  to  fret,  and  to  sigh. 

She  torments  me  each  moment,  and  bids  me  go  write, 
And  when  I  obey  her,  she  laughs  at  the  sight; 
The  rhyme  will  not  jingle,  the  verse  has  no  sense, 
And  against  all  her  insults  I  have  no  defence. 

I  advise  all  my  friends,  who  wish  me  to  write, 
To  keep  their  rewards  and  their  gifts  from  my  sight; 
So  that  jealous  Miss  Muse  won't  be  wounded  in  pride, 
Nor  Pegasus  rear,  till  I've  taken  my  ride. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  159 

TO  THE 
MEMORY  OF  HENRY  KIRK  WHITE. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

In  yon  lone  valley  where  the  cypress  spreads 
Its  gloomy,  dark,  impenetrable  shades, 
The  mourning  Nine,  o'er  White's  untimely  grave 
Murmur  their  sighs,  like  Neptune's  troubled  wave. 

There  sits  Consumption,  sickly,  pale,  and  thin, 
Her  joy  evincing  by  a  ghastly  grin; 
There  his  deserted  garlands  with'ring  lie, 
Like  him  they  droop,  like  him  untimely  die. 

STILLING  THE  WAVES. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

"And  he  arose  and  rebuked  the  wind,  and  said  unto  the  sea, 
« Peace,  be  still!' "  ... 

Be  still,  ye  waves,  for  Christ  doth  deign  to  tread 
On  the  rough  bosom  of  your  watery  bed! 
Be  not  too  harsh  your  gracious  Lord  to  greet, 
But,  in  soft  murmurs,  kiss  his  holy  feet; 
'Tis  He  alone  can  calm  your  rage  at  will, 
This  is  His  sacred  mandate,  "  Peace,  be  still!" 


160  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


A  SONG. 

(IN  IMITATION  OP  THE  SCOTCH.) 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Wha  is  it  that  caemeth  sae  blithe  and  sae  swift, 

His  bonnet  is  far  frae  his  flaxen  hair  lift, 

His  dark  een  rolls  gladsome,  i'  the  breeze  floats  his 

plaid, 

And  surely  he  bringeth  nae  news  that  is  sad. 
Ah!  say,  bonny  stranger,  whence  caernest  thou  now? 
The  tiny  drop  trickles  frae  off  thy  dark  brow. 

"  I  come,"  said  the  stranger,  "  to  spier  my  lued  hame, 
And  to  see  if  my  Marion  still  were  the  same; 
I  hae  been  to  the  battle,  where  thousands  hae  bled, 
And  chieftains  fu'  proud  are  wi'  mean  peasants  laid; 
I  hae  fought  for  my  country,  for  freedom,  and  fame, 
And  now  I'm  returning  wi'  speed  to  my  hame." 

"Gude  Spirit  of  light!"  ('twas  a  voice  caught  his 

ear) 

"  An  is  it  me  ain  Norman's  accents  I  hear? 
And  has  the  fierce  Southron  then  left  me  my  child! 
Or  am  I  wi'  sair,  sair  anxiety  wild? 
He  turned  to  behold — 'tis  his  mother  he  sees! 
He  flies  to  embrace  her — he  falls  on  his  knees. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  161 

"  Oh!  where  is  my  father?"  a  tear  trickled  down, 
And  silently  moisten'd  the  warrior's  cheek  brown: 
"  Ah!  sure  my  heart  sinks,  sae  sair  in  my  breast, 
Too  sure  he  frae  all  the  world's  trouble  doth  rest!" 
"  But  where  is  my  Marion?"  his  pale  cheek  turned 

red, 
And  the  glistening  tear  in  his  eye  was  soon  dried. 

"She  lives!"  and  he  knew  'twas  his  Marion's  sweet 

tone, 

"  She  lives,"  exclaims  Marion,  "for  Norman  alone!" 
He  saw  her:  the  rose  had  fled  far  from  her  cheek, 
Her  hair  was  dishevelled  which  once  was  so  sleek; 
But  Norman  still  lives!  his  Marion  is  found; 
By  the  adamant  chains  of  blithe  Hymen  they're  bound. 


EXIT  FROM  EGYPTIAN  BONDAGE. 

("Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

When  Israel's  sons,  from  cruel  bondage  freed, 
Fled  to  the  land  by  righteous  Heaven  decreed; 
Insulting  Pharaoh  quick  pursued  their  train, 
E'en  to  the  borders  of  the  troubled  main. 

Affrighted  Israel  stood  alone  dismayed, 
The  foe  behind,  the  sea  before  them  laid; 
Around,  the  hosts  of  bloody  Pharaoh  fold, 
And  wave  o'er  wave  the  raging  Red-sea  rolled. 
11 


162  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  God,  who  saves  his  chosen  ones  from  harm, 
Stretched  to  their  aid  his  all-protecling  arm, 
And  lo!  on  either  side  the  sea  divides, 
And  Israel's  army  in  its  bosom  hides. 

Safe  to  the  shore  through  watery  walls  they  march, 
And  once  more  hail  kind  Heaven's  aerial  arch; 
Far,  far  behind,  the  cruel  foe  is  seen, 
And  the  dark  waters  roll  their  march  between. 

The  God  of  vengeance  stretched  his  arm  again, 
And  heaving,  back  recoiled  the  foaming  main; 
And  impious  Pharaoh  'neath  the  raging  wave, 
With  all  his  army,  finds  a  watery  grave. 

Rejoice,  0  Israel!  God  is  on  your  side, 
He  is  your  Champion,  and  your  faithful  guide; 
By  day,  a  cloud  is  to  your  footsteps  given, 
By  night,  a  fiery  column  towers  to  heaven. 

Then  Israel's  children  marched  by  day  and  night, 
Till  Sinai's  mountain  rose  upon  their  sight: 
There  righteous  Heaven  the  flying  army  staid, 
And  Israel's  sons  the  high  command  obeyed. 

To  Sinai's  mount  the  trembling  people  came, 
'Twas  wrapped  in  threat'ning  clouds,  in  smoke,  and 

flame; 

A  silent  awe  pervaded  all  the  van; 
Not  e'en  a  murmur  through  the  army  ran. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  163 

High  Sinai  shook!  dread  thunders  rent  the  air! 
And  horrid  lightnings  round  its  summit  glare! 
'Twas  God's  pavilion,  and  the  black'ning  clouds, 
Dark  hov'ring  o'er,  his  dazzling  glory  shrouds. 

To  Heaven's  dread  court  the  intrepid  leader  came, 
T'  receive  its  mandate  in  the  people's  name; 
Loud  trumpets  peal — the  awful  thunders  roll, 
Transfixing  terrors  in  each  guilty  soul. 

But  lo!  he  comes,  arrayed  in  shining  light, 
And  round  his  forehead  plays  a  halo  bright: 
Heaven's  high  commands  with  trembling  were  re 
ceived, 

Heaven's  high  commands  were  heard,  and  were  be 
lieved. 


THE  LAST  FLOWER  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

The  last  flower  of  the  garden  was  blooming  alone, 
The  last  rays  of  the  sun  on  its  blushing  leaves  shone; 
Still  a  glittering  drop  on  its  bosom  reclined, 
And  a  few  half-blown  buds  'midst  its  leaves  were  en 
twined. 

Say,  lonely  one,  say,  why  ling'rest  thou  here? 
And  why  on  thy  bosom  reclines  the  bright  tear? 


164  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

'Tis  the  tear  of  a  zephyr — for  summer  'twas  shed, 
And  for  all  thy  companions  now  withered  and  dead. 

Why  ling'rest  thou  here,  when  around  thee  are  strown 
The  flowers  once  so  lovely,  by  Autumn  blasts  blown? 
Say,  why,  sweetest  flowret,  the  last  of  thy  race, 
Why  ling'rest  thou  here  the  lone  garden  to  grace? 

As  I  spoke,  a  rough  blast,  sent  by  Winter's  own  hand, 
Whistled  by  me,  and  bent  its  sweet  head  to  the  sand; 
I  hastened  to  raise  it — the  dew-drop  had  fled, 
And  the  once  lovely  flower  was  withered  and  dead. 


ODE  TO  FANCY. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Fancy,  sweet  and  truant  sprite, 
Steals  on  wings,  as  feathers  light, 
Draws  a  veil  o'er  Reason's  eye, 
And  bids  the  guardian  senses  fly. 

Soft  she  whispers  to  the  mind, 
Come,  and  trouble  leave  behind: 
She  banishes  the  fiend  Despair, 
And  shuts  the  eyes  of  waking  Care. 

Then,  o'er  precipices  dark, 

Where  never  reached  the  wing  of  lark, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  165 

Fearing  no  harm,  she  dauntless  flies, 
Where  rocks  on  rocks  dread  frowning  rise. 

When  Autumn  shakes  his  hoary  head, 
And  scatters  leaves  at  every  tread; 
Fancy  stands  with  list'ning  ear, 
Nor  starts,  when  shrinks  affrighted  Fear. 

There's  music  in  the  rattling  leaf, 
But  'tis  not  for  the  ear  of  grief; 
There's  music  in  the  wind's  hoarse  moan, 
But  'tis  for  Fancy's  ear  alone. 


THE    BLUSH. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Why  that  blush  on  Ella's  cheek, 
What  doth  the  flitting  wand'rer  seek? 
Doth  passion's  black'ning  tempest  scowl, 
To  agitate  my  Ella's  soul? 

Return,  sweet  wand'rer,  fear  no  harm; 
The  heart  which  Ella's  breast  doth  warm, 
Is  virtue's  calm,  serene  retreat; 
And  ne'er  with  passion's  storm  did  beat. 

Return,  and  camly  rest,  till  love 
Shall  thy  sweet  efficacy  prove; 


166  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Then  come,  and  thy  loved  place  resume, 
And  fill  that  cheek  with  youthful  bloom. 

A  blush  of  nature  charms  the  heart 
More  than  the  brilliant  tints  of  art; 
They  please  awhile,  and  please  no  more — 
We  hate  the  things  we  loved  before. 

But  no  unfading  tints  were  those, 
Which  to  my  Ella's  cheek  arose; 
They  please  the  raptured  heart,  and  fly 
Before  they  pall  the  gazing  eye. 

'Twas  not  the  blush  of  guilt  or  shame, 
Which  o'er  my  Ella's  features  came; 
'Twas  she,  who  fed  the  poor  distressed, 
'Twas  she  the  indigent  had  blessed; 

For  her  their  prayers  to  heaven  were  raised, 
On  her  the  grateful  people  gazed; 
'Twas  then  the  blush  suffused  her  cheek, 
Which  told  what  words  can  never  speak. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  157 

ON  AN  AEOLIAN  HARP. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

What  heavenly  music  strikes  my  ravished  ear, 
So  soft,  so  melancholy,  and  so  clear? 
And  do  the  tuneful  Nine  then  touch  the  lyre, 
To  fill  each  bosom  with  poetic  fire? 

Or  does  some  angel  strike  the  sounding  strings, 
Catching  from  echo  the  wild  note  he  sings? 
But  hark!  another  strain,  how  sweet,  how  wild! 
Now  rising  high,  now  sinking  low  and  mild. 

And  tell  me  now,  ye  spirits  of  the  wind, 
Oh,  tell  me  where  those  artless  notes  to  find! 
So  lofty  now,  so  loud,  so  sweet,  so  clear, 
That  even  angels  might  delighted  hear! 

But  hark!  those  notes  again  majestic  rise, 
As  though  some  spirit,  banished  from  the  skies, 
Had  hither  fled  to  charm  ^Eolus  wild, 
And  teach  him  other  music  sweet  and  mild. 

Then  hither  fly,  sweet  mourner  of  the  air, 
Then  hither  fly,  and  to  my  harp  repair; 
At  twilight  chaunt  the  melancholy  lay, 
And  charm  the  sorrows  of  thy  soul  away. 


168  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE  COQUETTE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

I  hae  nae  sleep,  1  hae  nae  rest, 

My  Ellen's  lost  for  aye, 
My  heart  is  sair  and  much  distressed, 

I  surely  soon  must  die. 

"  <".   - 

I  canna  think  o'  wark  at  a', 

My  eyes  still  wander  far, 
I  see  her  neck  like  driven  snaw, 

I  see  her  flaxen  hair. 

Sair,  sair,  I  begged;  she  would  na'  hear, 

She  proudly  turned  awa', 
Unmoved  she  saw  the  trickling  tear, 

Which,  spite  o'  me,  would  fa'. 

She  acted  weel  a  conqueror's  part, 

She  triumphed  in  my  wo, 
She  gracefu'  waved  me  to  depart, 

I  tried,  but  could  naj  go. 

"  Ah  why,"  (distractedly  I  cried,) 

"  Why  yield  me  to  despair? 
Bid  ling'ring  Hope  resume  her  sway, 

To  ease  my  heart  sae  sair." 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  169 

She  scornfu'  smiled,  and  bade  me  go! 

This  roused  my  dormant  pride; 
I  craved  nae  boon — I  took  nae  luke, 

"  Adieu!"  I  proudly  cried. 

I  fled!  nor  Ellen  hae  I  seen, 

Sin'  that  too  fatal  day: 
My  "  bosom's  laird"  sits  heavy  here, 

And  Hope's  fled  far  away. 

Care,  darkly  brooding  bodes  a  storm, 
'  I'm  Sorrow's  child  indeed; 
She  stamps  her  image  on  my  form, 
I  wear  the  mourning  weed! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Sweet  child,  and  hast  thou  gone,  for  ever  fled! 
Low  lies  thy  body  in  its  grassy  bed; 
But  thy  freed  soul  swift  bends  its  flight  through  air, 
Thy  heavenly  Father's  gracious  love  to  share. 

And  now,  methinks,  I  see  thee  clothed  in  white, 
Mingling  with  saints,  like  thee,  celestial  bright. — 
Look  down,  sweet  angel,  on  thy  friends  below, 
And  mark  their  trickling  tears  of  silent  wo. 


170  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Look  down  with  pity  in  thy  infant  eye, 

And  view  the  friends  thou  left,  for  friends  on  high; 

Methinks  I  see  thee  leaning  from  above, 

To  whisper,  to  those  friends,  of  peace  and  love. 

"  Weep  not  for  me,  for  I  am  happy  still, 
And  murmur  not  at  our  great  Father's  will; 
Let  not  this  blow  your  trust  in  Jesus  shake, 
Our  Saviour  gave,  and  it  is  his  to  take. 

"  Once  you  looked  forward  to  life's  opening  day, 
The  scene  was  bright,  and  pleasant  seemed  the  way; 
Hope  drew  the  picture,  Fancy,  ever  near, 
Coloured  it  bright — 'tis  blotted  with  a  tear. 

"  Then  let  that  tear  be  Resignation's  child; 
Yielding  to  Heaven's  high  will,  be  calm,  be  mild; 
Weep  for  your  child  no  more,  she's  happy  still, 
And  murmur  not  at  your  great  Father's  will." 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  171 


REFLECTIONS, 

ON  CROSSING  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN  IN  THE  STEAMBOAT 
PHOENIX. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Islet*  on  the  lake's  calm  bosom, 

In  thy  breast  rich  treasures  lie; 
Heroes!  there  your  bones  shall  moulder, 

But  your  fame  shall  never  die. 

Islet  on  the  lake's  calm  bosom, 

Sleep  serenely  in  thy  bed; 
Brightest  gem  our  waves  can  boast, 

Guardian  angel  of  the  dead! 

Cairn  upon  the  waves  recline, 

Till  great  Nature's  reign  is  o'er; 
Until  old  and  swift-winged  time 

Sinks,  and  order  is  no  more. 

Then  thy  guardianship  shall  cease, 

Then  shall  rock  thy  aged  bed; 
And  when  Heaven's  last  trump  shall  sound, 

Thou  shall  yield  thy  noble  dead! 

*  Crab  Island;  on  which  were  buried  the  remains  of  the  sailors 
who  fell  in  the  action  of  September  llth,  1814. 


172  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE  STAR  OF  LIBERTY. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

There  shone  a  gem  on  England's  crown 
Bright  as  yon  star; 
Oppression  marked  it  with  a  frown, 
He  sent  his  darkest  spirit  down, 
To  quench  the  light  that  round  it  shone, 

Blazing  afar. 

But  Independence  met  the  foe, 
And  laid  the  swift-winged  demon  low. 

A  second  messenger  was  sent, 

Dark  as  the  night; 
On  his  dire  errand  swift  he  went, 
But  Valour's  bow  was  truly  bent, 
Justice  her  keenest  arrow  lent, 

And  sped  its  flight; 

Then  fell  the  impious  wretch,  and  Death 
Approached,  to  take  his  withering  breath. 

Valour  then  took,  with  hasty  hand, 

The  gem  of  light; 
He  flew  to  seek  some  other  land, 
He  flew  to  'scape  oppression's  hand, 
He  knew  there  was  some  other  strand, 
More  bright; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  173 

And  as  he  swept  the  fields  of  air, 
He  found  a  country  rich  and  fair. 

Upon  its  breast  the  star  he  placed, 

The  star  of  liberty; 

Bright,  and  more  bright  the  meteor  blazed, 

The  lesser  planets  stood  amazed, 

Astonished  mortals,  wondering,  gazed, 

Looking  on  fearfully. 

That  star  shines  brightly  to  this  day, 

On  thy  calm  breast,  America! 


THE  MERMAID. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  "ear.) 

Maid  of  the  briny  wave  and  raven  lock, 

Whose  bed's  the  sea-weed,  and  whose  throne's  the 

rock, 

Tell  me,  what  fate  compels  thee  thus  to  ride 
O'er  the  tempestuous  ocean's  foaming  tide? 

Art  thou  some  naiad,  who,  at  Neptune's  nod, 
Flies  to  obey  the  mandate  of  that  god? 
Art  thou  the  syren,  who,  when  night  draws  on, 
Chaunt'st  thy  wild  farewell  to  the  setting  sun? 

Or,  leaning  on  thy  wave-encircled  rock, 
Twining  with  lily  hand  thy  raven  lock; 


174  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Dost  thou,  in  accents  wild,  proclaim  the  storm, 
Which  soon  shall  wrap  th'  unwary  sailor's  form? 

Or  dost  thou  round  the  wild  Charybdis  play, 
To  warn  the  seaman  from  his  dangerous  way? 
Or,  shrieking  midst  the  tempest,  chaunt  the  dirge 
Of  shipwrecked  sailors,  buried  in  the  surge? 

Tell  me,  mysterious  being,  what  you  are? 
So  wild,  so  strange,  so  lonely,  yet  so  fair! 
Tell  me,  0  tell  me,  why  you  sit  alone, 
Singing  so  sweetly  on  the  wave-washed  stone? 

And  tell  me,  that  if  e'er  I  find  my  grave, 
Beneath  the  ocean's  wildly  troubled  wave, 
That  thou  with  weeds  wilt  strew  my  watery  bed, 
And  hush  the  roaring  billows  o'er  my  head. 


ON  SOLITUDE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Sweet  Solitude!  I  love  thy  silent  shade, 
I  love  to  pause  when  in  life's  mad  carrer; 

To  view  the  chequered  path  before  me  laid, 
And  turn  to  meditate — to  hope,  to  fear. 

'Tis  sweet  to  draw  the  curtain  on  the  world, 
To  shut  out  all  its  tumult,  all  its  care; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  175 

Leave  the  dread  vortex,  in  which  all  are  whirled, 
And  to  thy  shades  of  twilight  calm  repair. 

Yet,  Solitude,  the  hand  divine,  which  made 
The  earth,  the  ocean,  and  the  realms  of  air, 

Pointed  how  far  thy  kingdom  should  extend, 
And  bade  thee  pause,  for  he  had  fixed  thee  there. 

Then,  when  disgusted  with  the  world  and  man, 

When  sick  of  pageantry,  of  pomp,  and  pride, 
To  thee  I'll  fly,  in  thee  I'll  seek  relief, 

And  hope  to  find  that  calm  the  world  denied. 

« 
Adieu,  then,  Solitude!  I  fly  thy  arms, 

I  brave  a  world  of  peril  and  of  care; 
To  tempt  the  sneer,  the  laugh,  the  dreaded  scorn, 

Which  man  with  brother  man  was  doomed  to  share. 

Life  would  be  tasteless,  if  without  alarms; 

What  is  a  smile,  divested  of  a  tear? 
Without  a  thorn  the  rose  would  lose  its  charms, 

For  pain  makes  pleasure  but  appear  more  fair. 


176  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  SISTER. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Sweet  babe,  I  cannot  hope  that  thou'lt  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all,  since  earliest  time,  decreed; 
But  mayst  thou  be  with  resignation  blessed, 
To  bear  each  evil,  howsoe'er  distressed. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lead  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form! 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace, 
To  the  rude  whirlwinds  softly  whisper  "cease!" 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's  own  darling  child, 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  this  world  of  wo, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount,  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 

And  when  this  vale  of  tears  is  safely  passed, 
When  Death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  177 


A    DREAM. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Methought,  (unwitting  how  the  place  I  gained,) 

I  rested  on  a  fleecy,  floating  cloud, 

Far  o'er  the  earth,  the  stars,  the  sun,  the  heavens, 

And  slowly  wheeled  around  the  dread  expanse! 

Sudden,  methought,  a  trumpet's  voice  was  heard, 

Pealing  with  long,  loud,  death-awakening  note, 

Such  note  as  mortal  man  but  once  may  hear! 

At  that  heart-piercing  summons,  there  arose 

A  crowd  fast  pouring  from  the  troubled  earth! 

The  earth,  that  blackened  speck  alone  seemed  moved 

By  the  dread  note,  which  rushed, 

Like  pent  up   whirlwinds,  round    Heaven's  azure 

vault; 

All  other  worlds,  all  other  twinkling  stars 
Stood  mute — stood  motionless; 
Their  time  had  not  yet  come. 
Yet,  ever  and  anon,  they  seemed  to  bow 
Before  the  dread  tribunal; 
And  the  fiery  comet,  as  it  blazed  along, 
Stopped  in  its  midway  course,  as  conscious  of  the 

power 

Which  onward  ever,  ever  had  impelled: 
No  other  planet  moved,  none  seemed  convulsed, 
Save  the  dim  orb  of  earth! 

12 


178  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Forth  eddying  rushed  a  crowd,  confused  and  dark, 

Like  a  volcano,  muttering  and  subdued! 

There  came  no  sound  distinct,  but  sighs  and  groans, 

And  murmurings  half  suppressed,  half  uttered! 

All  eyes  were  upward  turned  in  wonder  and  in  fear, 

But  soon,  methought,  they  onward  rolled 

To  the  dread  High  One's  bar, 

As  the  tumultuous  billows  rush  murmuring  to  the 
shore, 

And  all  distinctions  dwindled  into  naught. 

Upward  I  cast  my  eyes; 

High  on  an  azure  throne,  begirt  with  clouds, 

Sate  the  dread  Indescribable! 

He  raised  his  sceptre,  waved  it  o'er  the  crowd, 

And  all  was  calm  and  silent  as  the  grave! 

He  rose;  the  cherubs  flapped  their  snowy  wings! 

On  came  the  rushing  wind — the  throne  was  moved, 

And  flew  like  gliding  swan  above  the  crowd! 

Sudden  it  stopped  o'er  the  devoted  world! 

The  Judge  moved  forward  'mid  his  sable  shroud, 

Raised  his  strong  arm  with  rolling  thunders  clothed, 

Held  forth  a  vial  filled  with  wrathful  fire, 

Then  poured  the  contents  on  the  waiting  globe ! 

Sudden  the  chain,  which  bound  it  to  God's  throne, 

Snapped  with  a  dire  explosion! 

On  wheeled  the  desolate — the  burning  orb 

Swift  through  the  heavens! 

Down,  down  it  plunged — then  shot  across  the  ex 
panse, 

Blazing  through  realms,  where  light  had  never 
pierced ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  179 

Down,  down  it  plunged — fast  wheeling  from  above, 
Shooting  forth  flames,  and  sparks,  and  burning  brands, 
Trailing  from  shade  to  shade! 
Then  bounding,  blazing— brighter  than  before, 
It  plunged  extinguished  in  the  chaotic  gulf! 


TO    MY    SISTER. 

OVritten  in  her  fifteenth  year.*) 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven; 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given ; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye; 

When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie; 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give; 

Oh,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And  hovering,  trembles,  half  afraid; 

*  See  Biographical  Sketch. 


180  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

0  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 
Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 

'Twere  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 
Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day; 

Notes  borne  by  angel's  purest  wing, 
And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Should'st  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love? 


CUPID'S    BOWER. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Am  I  in  fairy  land?  or  tell  me,  pray, 
To  what  love-lighted  bower  I've  found  my  way? 
Sure  luckless  wight  was  never  more  beguiled 
In  woodland  maze,  or  closely-tangled  wild. 

And  is  this  Cupid's  realm?  if  so,  good-bye! 
Cupid,  and  Cupid's  votaries,  I  fly; 
No  offering  to  his  altar  do  I  bring, 
No  bleeding  heart — or  hymeneal  ring. 

What  though  he  proudly  marshals  his  array 
Of  conquered  hearts,  still  bleeding  in  his  way; 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

Of  sighs,  of  kisses  sweet,  of  glances  sly, 
Playing  around  some  darkly-beauteous  eye? 

What  though  the  rose  of  beauty  opening  wide, 
Blooms  but  for  him,  and  fans  his  lordly  pride? 
What  though  his  garden  boasts  the  fairest  flower 
That  ever  dew-drop  kissed,  or  pearly  shower; 

Still,  Cupid,  I'm  no  votary  to  thee; 
Thy  torch  of  light  will  never  blaze  for  me; 
I  ask  no  glance  of  thine,  I  ask  no  sigh; 
I  brave  thy  fury,  and  thus  boldly  fly! 

Adieu,  then,  and  forevermore,  adieu! 
Ye  poor  entangled  ones,  farewell  to  you! 
And,  0  ye  powers!  a  hapless  mortal  prays 
For  guidance  through  this  labyrinthine  maze. 


182  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE  FAMILY  TIME-PIECE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Friend  of  my  heart,  thou  monitor  of  youth, 
Well  do  I  love  thee,  dearest  child  of  truth; 
Though  many  a  lonely  hour  thy  whisperings  low 
Have  made  sad  chorus  to  the  notes  of  wo. 

Or  'mid  the  happy  hour  which  joyful  flew, 
Thou  still  wert  faithful,  still  unchanged,  still  true; 
Or  when  the  task  employed  my  infant  mind, 
Oft  have  I  sighed  to  see  thee  lag  behind; 

And  watched  thy  finger,  with  a  youthful  glee, 
When  it  had  pointed  silently,  "  be  free:" 
Thou  wert  my  mentor  through  each  passing  year; 
'Mid  pain  or  pleasure,  thou  wert  ever  near. 

And  when  the  wings  of  time  unnoticed  flew, 
I  paused,  reflected,  wondered,  turned  to  you; 
Paused  in  my  heedless  round,  to  mark  thy  hand, 
Pointing  to  conscience,  like  a  magic  wand; 

To  watch  thee  stealing  on  thy  silent  way, 
Silent,  but  sure,  Time's  pinions  cannot  stay; 
How  many  hours  of  pleasure,  hours  bf  pain, 
When  smiles  were  bright'ning  round  affliction's  train? 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  133 

How  many  hours  of  poverty  and  wo, 
Which  tanght  cold  drops  of  agony  to  flow? 
How  many  hours  of  war,*  of  blood,  of  death, 
Which  added  laurels  to  the  victor's  wreath? 

How  many  deep-drawn  sighs  thy  hand  hath  told, 
And  dimmed  the  smile,  and  dried  the  tear  which  rolled? 
When  the  loud  cannon  spoke  the  voice  of  war, 
And  death  and  bloodshed  whirled  their  crimson  car? 

When  the  proud  banner,  waving  in  the  breeze, 
Had  welcomed  war,  and  bade  adieu  to  peace, 
Thy  faithful  finger  traced  the  wing  of  time, 
Pointed  to  earth,  and  then  to  heaven  sublime. 

Unmoved  amid  the  carnage  of  the  world, 
When  thousands  to  eternity  were  hurled, 
Thy  head  was  reared  aloft,  truth's  chosen  child, 
Beaming  serenely  through  the  troubled  wild. 

Friend  of  rny  youth,  e'er  from  its  mould'ring  clay 
My  joyful  spirit  wings  to  heaven  its  way; 
0  may'st  thou  watch  beside  my  aching  head, 
And  tell  how  fast  time  flits  with  feathered  tread. 

*  Alluding  probably  to  the  late  war  scenes  at  Plattsburgh.— Ed. 


184  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


ON  THE 

EXECUTION  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Touch  not  the  harp,  for  Sorrow's  voice 

Will  mingle  in  the  chorus  wild; 
When  Scotland  weeps,  canst  thou  rejoice? 

No:  rather  mourn  her  murdered  child. 

Sing  how  on  Carberry's  mount  of  blood, 

'Mid  foes  exulting  in  her  doom, 
The  captive  Mary  fearless  stood, 

A  helpless  victim  for  the  tomb. 

Justice  and  Mercy,  'frighted,  fled, 

And  shrouded  was  Hope's  beacon  blaze, 

When,  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
Poor  Mary  met  her  murderer's  gaze. 

Calm  was  her  eye  as  yon  dark  lake, 
And  changed  her  once  angelic  form; 

No  sigh  was  heard  the  pause  to  break, 
That  awful  pause  before  the  storm. 

0  draw  the  veil,  'twere  shame  to  gaze 
Upon  the  bloody  tragedy; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  185 

But  lo!  a  brilliant  halo  plays 
Around  the  hill  of  Carberry. 

'Tis  done — and  Mary's  soul  has  flown 
Beyond  this  scene  of  blood  and  death; 

'Tis  done — the  lovely  saint  has  gone 
To  claim  in  heaven  a  thornless  wreath. 

But  as  Elijah,  when  his  car 

Wheeled  on  towards  heaven  its  path  of  light, 
Dropped  on  his  friend,  he  left  afar, 

His  mantle,  like  a  meteor  bright; 

So  Mary,  when  her  spirit  flew 

Far  from  this  world,  so  sad,  so  weary, 

A  crown  of  fame  immortal  threw  . 
Around  the  brow  of  Carberry. 


186  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF 

SODOM  AND  GOMORRAH. 

"  And  he  looked  towards  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  and  lo!  the 
smoke  of  the  country  went  up  as  the  smoke  of  a  furnace." 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

0  dread  was  the  night,  when  o'er  Sodom's  wide  plain 

The  fire  of  heaven  descended; 
For  all  that  then  bloomed,  shall  ne'er  bloom  there 
again, 

For  man  hath  his  Maker  offended. 

The  midnight  of  terror  and  wo  hath  passed  by, 

The  death-spirit's  pinions  are  furled; 
But  the  sun,  as  it  beams  clear  and  brilliant  on  high, 

Hides  from  Sodom's  dark,  desolate  world. 

Here  lies  but  that  glassy,  that  death-stricken  lake, 
As  in  mockery  of  what  had  been  there; 

The  wild  bird  flies  far  from  the  dark  nestling  brake, 
Which  waves  its  scorched  arms  in  the  air. 

In  that  city  the  wine-cup  was  brilliantly  flowing, 

Joy  held  her  high  festival  there; 
Not  a  fond  bosom  dreaming,  (in  luxury  glowing,) 

Of  the  close  of  that  night  of  despair. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  137 

For  the  bride,  her  handmaiden  the  garland  was  wreath 
ing? 

At  the  altar  the  bridegroom  was  waiting, 
But  vengeance  impatiently  round  them  was  breathing, 

And  Death  at  that  shrine  was  their  greeting. 

But  the  wine-cup  is  empty,  and  broken  it  lies, 

The  lip,  which  it  foamed  for,  is  cold; 
For  the  red  wing  of  Death  o'er  Gomorrah  now  flies, 

And  Sodom  is  wrapped  in  its  fold. 

The  bride  is  wedded,  but  the  bridegroom  is  Death, 
With  his  cold,  damp,  and  grave-like  hand; 

Her  pillow  is  ashes,  the  slime-weed  her  wreath, 
Heaven's  flames  are  her  nuptial  band. 

And  near  to  that  cold,  that  desolate  sea, 

Whose  fruits  are  to  ashes  now  turned, 
Not  a  fresh  blown  flower,  not  a  budding  tree, 

Now  blooms  where  those  cities  were  burned. 


188  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


RUTH'S  ANSWER  TO  NAOMI. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Entreat  me  not,  I  must  not  hear, 
Mark  but  this  sorrow-beaming  tear; 
Thy  answer's  written  deeply  now 
On  this  warm  cheek  and  clouded  brow; 
'Tis  gleaming  o'er  this  eye  of  sadness 
WFu'ch  only  near  thee  sparkles  gladness. 

The  hearts  most  dear  to  us  are  gone, 
And  thou  and  /are  left  alone; 
Where'er  thou  wanderest,  I  will  go, 
I'll  follow  thee  through  joy  or  wo; 
Shouldst  thou  to  other  countries  fly, 
Where'er  thou  lodgest,  there  will  I. 

Thy  people  shall  my  people  be, 
And  to  thy  God,  I'll  bend  the  knee; 
Whither  thou  fliest,  will  I  fly, 
And  where  thou  diest,  I  will  die; 
And  the  same  sod  which  pillows  thee 
Shall  freshly,  sweetly  bloom  for  me. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  139 


DAVID  AND  JONATHAN. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

On  the  brow  of  Gilboa  is  war's  bloodly  stain, 
The  pride  and  the  beauty  of  Israel  is  slain; 
0  publish  it  not  in  proud  Askelon's  street, 
Nor  tell  it  in  Gath,  lest  in  triumph  they  meet, 

For  how  are  the  mighty  fallen ! 

0  mount  of  Gilboa,  no  dew  shalt  thou  see, 
Save  the  blood  of  the  Philistine  fall  upon  thee; 
For  the  strong-pinioned  eagle  of  Israel  is  dead, 
Thy  brow  is  his  pillow,  thy  bosom  his  bed! 

0  how  are  the  mighty  fallen! 

Weep,  daughters  of  Israel,  weep  o'er  his  grave! 
What  breast  will  now  pity,  what  arm  will  now  save? 
0  my  brother!  my  brother!  this  heart  bleeds  for  thee, 
For  thou  wert  a  friend  and  a  brother  to  me! 

Ah,  how  are  the  mighty  fallen ! 


190  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE    SICK    BED. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

0  have  you  watched  beside  the  bed, 
Where  rests  the  weary,  aching  head? 

And  have  you  heard  the  long,  deep  groan, 
The  low  said  prayer,  in  half-breathed  tone? 

0  have  you  seen  the  fevered  sleep, 

Which  speaks  of  agony  within? 
The  eye  which  would,  but  cannot  weep, 

And  wipe  away  the  stains  of  sin? 

0  have  you  marked  the  struggling  breath. 
Which  would  but  cannot  leave  its  clay? 

And  have  you  marked  the  hand  of  death 
Unbind,  and  bid  it  haste  away? 

Then  thou  hast  seen  what  thou  shalt  feel; 

Then  thou  hast  read  thy  future  doom; 
0  pause,  one  moment,  o'er  death's  seal, 

There's  no  repentance  in  the  tomb. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


DEATH. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

The  destroyer  cometh;  his  footstep  is  light, 
He  marketh  the  threshold  of  sorrow  at  night; 
He  steals  like  a  thief  o'er  the  fond  one's  repose, 
And  chills  the  warm  tide  from  the  heart  as  it  flows. 

His  throne  is  the  tomb,  and  a  pestilent  breath 
Walks  forth  on  the  night-wind,  the  herald  of  death! 
His  couch  is  the  bier,  and  the  dark  weeds  of  wo 
Are  the  curtains  which  shroud  joy's  deadliest  foe. 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

0  thou  whose  care  sustained  my  infant  years, 
And  taught  my  prattling  lip  each  note  of  love; 

Whose  soothing  voice  breathed  comfort  to  my  fears, 
And  round  my  brow  hope's  brightest  garland  wove; 

To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simple  song, 

Which  Nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day; 

To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 
Whose  heart  indulgent  will  not  spurn  my  lay. 


192  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

0  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life, 

What  bosom  would  have  throbbed  like  thine  for  me? 
Who  would  have  smiled  responsive? — who  in  grief, 

Would  e'er  have  felt,  and,  feeling,  grieved  like  thee? 

Who  would  have  guarded,  with  a  falcon-eye, 
Each  trembling  footstep  or  each  sport  of  fear? 

Who  would  have  marked  my  bosom  bounding  high, 
And  clasped  me  to  her  heart,  with  love's  bright  tear? 

Who  would  have  hung  around  my  sleepless  couch, 
And  fanned,  with  anxious  hand,  my  burning  brow? 

Who  would  have  fondly  pressed  my  fevered  lip, 
In  all  the  agony  of  love  and  wo? 

None  but  a  mother — none  but  one  like  thee, 
Whose  bloom  has  faded  in  the  midnight  watch; 

Whose  eye,  for  me,  has  lost  its  witchery, 
Whose  form  has  felt  disease's  mildew  touch. 

Yes,  thou  hast  lighted  me  to  health  and  life, 
By  the  bright  lustre  of  thy  youthful  bloom — 

Yes,  thou  hast  wept  so  oft  o'er  every  grief, 

That  wo  hath  traced  thy  brow  with  marks  of  gloom. 

0  then,  to  thee,  this  rude  and  simple  song, 
Which  breathes  of  thankfulness  and  love  for  thee, 

To  thee,  my  mother,  shall  this  lay  belong, 
Whose  life  is  spent  in  toil  and  care  for  me. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  193 


S  ABRIN  A. 

A    VOLCANIC     ISLAND,     WHICH     APPEARED     AND     DIS 
APPEARED  AMONG  THE  AZORES,  IN  1811. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Isle  of  the  ocean,  say,  whence  comest  thou? 

The  srnoke  thy  dark  throne,  and  the  blaze  round  thy 

brow; 

The  voice  of  the  earthquake  proclaims  thee  abroad, 
And  the  deep,  at  thy  coming,  rolls  darkly  and  loud. 

From  the  breast  of  the  ocean,  the  bed  of  the  wave, 
Thou  hast  burst  into  being,  hast  sprung  from  the  grave; 
A  stranger,  wild,  gloomy,  yet  terribly  bright, 
Thou  art  clothed  with  the  darkness,  yet  crowned  with 
the  light. 

Thou  comest  in  flames,  thou  hast  risen  in  fire; 
The  wave  is  thy  pillow,  the  tempest  thy  choir;  • 
They  will  lull  thee  to  sleep  on  the  ocean's  broad  breast, 
A  slumb'ring  volcano,  an  earthquake  at  rest. 

Thou  hast  looked  on  the  isle — thou  hast  looked  on  the 

wave — 

Then  hie  thee  again  to  thy  deep,  watery  grave; 
Go,  quench  thee  in  ocean,  thpu  dark,  nameless  thing, 
Thou  spark  from  the  fallen  one's  wide  flaming  wing. 

13 


194  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE    PROPHECY. 

TO  A  LADY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Let  me  gaze  awhile  on  that  marble  brow, 

On  that  full,  dark  eye,  on  that  cheek's  warm  glow; 

Let  me  gaze  for  a  moment,  that,  ere  I  die, 

I  may  read  thee,  maiden,  a  prophecy. 

That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  awhile; 

That  cheek  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  may  smile; 

That  full,  dark  eye  may  brightly  beam 

In  life's  gay  morn,  in  hope's  young  dream; 

But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow, 

And  sorrow  blight  thy  bosom's  glow. 

I  know  by  that  spirit  so  haughty  and  high, 

I  know  by  that  brightly-flashing  eye, 

That,  maiden,  there's  that  within  thy  breast, 

Which  hath  marked  thee  out  for  a  soul  unblest: 

The  strife  of  love,  with  pride  shall  wring 

Thy  youthful  bosom's  lenderest  string; 

And  the  cup  of  sorrow,  mingled  for  thee, 

Shall  be  drained  to  the  dregs  in  agony. 

Yes,  maiden,  yes,  I  read  in  thine  eye, 

A  dark,  and  a  doubtful  prophecy. 

Thou  shall  love,  and  that  love  shall  be  thy  curse; 

Thou  wilt  need  no  heavier,  thou  shall  feel  no  worse. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  195 

I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near; 

The  voice  of  the  troubled  tide  I  hear; 

The  torrent  of  sorrow,  the  sea  of  grief, 

The  rushing  waves  of  a  wretched  life; 

Thy  bosom's  bark  on  the  surge  I  see, 

And,  maiden,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee. 

Not  a  star  in  the  heavens,  not  a  light  on  the  wave! 

Maiden,  I've  gazed  on  thine  early  grave. 

When  I  am  cold,  and  the  hand  of  Death 

Hath  crowned  my  brow  with  an  icy  wreath: 

When  the  dew  hangs  damp  on  this  motionless  lip; 

When  this  eye  is  closed  in  its  long,  last  sleep, 

Then,  maiden,  pause,  when  thy  heart  beats  high, 

And  think  on  my  last  sad  prophecy. 


PROPHECY    II. 

TO  ANOTHER  LADY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  have  told  a  maiden  of  hours  of  grief, 
Of  a  bleeding  heart,  of  a  joyless  life; 
I  have  read  her  a  tale  of  future  wo; 
I  have  marked  her  a  pathway  of  sorrow  below; 
I  have  read  on  the  page  of  her  blooming  cheek, 
A  darker  doom  than  my  tongue  dare  speak. 
Now,  maiden,  for  thee,  I  will  turn  mine  eye 
To  a  brighter  path  through  futurity. 


196  LUC11ETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  clouds  shall  pass  from  thy  brow  away, 
And  bright  be  the  closing  of  life's  long  day; 
The  storms  shall  murmur  in  silence  to  sleep, 
And  angels  around  thee  their  watches  shall  keep; 
Thou  shalt  live  in  the  sunbeams  of  love  and  delight, 
And  thy  life  shall  flow  on  'till  it  fades  into  night; 
And  the  twilight  of  age  shall  come  quietly  on; 
Thou  wilt  feel,  yet  regret  not,  that  daylight  hath  flown; 
For  the  shadows  of  evening  shall  melt  o'er  thy  soul, 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  Heaven  around  thee  shall  roll, 
'Till  sinking  in  sweet,  dreamless  slumber  to  rest, 
In  the  arms  of  thy  loved  one,  still  blessing  and  blest, 
Thy  soul  shall  glide  on  to  its  harbour  in  Heaven, 
Every  tear  wiped  away — every  error  forgiven. 


PROPHECY     III. 

TO  ANOTHER  LADY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Wilt  thou  rashly  unveil  the  dark  volume  of  fate? 
It  is  open  before  thee,  repentance  is  late; 
Too  late,  for  behold,  o'er  the  dark  page  of  wo, 
Move  the  days  of  thy  grief,  yet  unnumbered  below. 
There  is  one,  whose  sad  destiny  mingles  with  thine; 
He  was  formed  to  be  happy — he  dared  to  repine; 
And  jealousy  mixed  in  his  bright  cup  of  bliss, 
And  the  page  of  his  fate  grew  still  darker  than  this: 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  197 

He  gazed  on  thee,  maiden,  he  met  thee,  and  passed; 
But  better  for  thee  had  the  Siroc's  fell  blast 
Swept  by  thee,  and  wasted  and  faded  thee  there, 
So  youthful,  so  happy,  so  thoughtless,  so  fair. 
And  mark  ye  his  broad  brow?  'tis  noble;  'tis  high; 
And  mark  ye  the  flash  of  his  dark,  eagle-eye? 
When  the  wide   wheels  of  time  have  encircled  the 

world; 

When  the  banners  of  night  in  the  sky  are  unfurled; 
Then,  maiden,  remember  the  tale  I  have  told, 
For  farther  I  may  not,  I  dare  not  unfold. 
The  rose  on  yon  dark  page  is  sear  and  decayed, 
And  thus,  e'en  in  youth,  shall  thy  fondest  hopes  fade; 
'Tis  an  emblem  of  thee,  broken,  withered,  and  pale — 
Nay, start  not,  and  blanch  not,  though  dark  be  the  tale; 
An  hour-glass  half-spent,  and  a  tear-bedewed  token, 
A  heart,  withered,  wasted,  and  bleeding  and  broken, 
All  these  are  the  emblems  of  sorrow  to  be; 
I  will  veil  the  page,  maiden,  in  pity  to  thee. 


198  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


BYRON. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

His  faults  were  great,  his  virtues  less, 
His  mind  a  burning  lamp  of  Heaven; 

His  talents  were  bestowed  to  bless, 
But  were  as  vainly  lost  as  given. 

His  was  a  harp  of  heavenly  sound, 
The  numbers  wild,  and  bold,  and  clear; 

But  ah!  some  demon,  hovering  round, 
Tuned  its  sweet  chords  to  Sin  and  Fear. 

His  was  a  mind  of  giant  mould, 
Which  grasped  at  all  beneath  the  skies; 

And  his,  a  heart,  so  icy  cold, 
That  virtue  in  its  recess  dies. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  199 


FEATS    OF    DEATH. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  have  passed  o'er  the  earth  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
I  have  walked  the  wild  winds  in  the  morning's  broad 

light; 
I  have  paused  o'er  the  bower  where  the  Infant  lay 

sleeping, 
And  I've  left  the  fond  mother  in  sorrow  and  weeping. 

My  pinion  was  spread,  and  the  cold  dew  of  night 
Which  withers  and  moulders  the  flower  in  its  light, 
Fell  silently  o'er  the  warm  cheek  in  its  glow, 
Arid  I  left  it  there  blighted,  and  wasted,  and  low; 
I  culled  the  fair  bud,  as  it  danced  in  its  mirth, 
And  I  left  it  to  moulder  and  fade  on  the  earth. 

I  paused  o'er  the  valley,  the  glad  sounds  of  joy 
Rose  soft  through  the  mist,  arid  ascended  on  high; 
The  fairest  were  there,  and  I  paused  in  my  flight, 
And  the  deep  cry  of  wailing  broke  wildly  that  night. 

I  stay  not  to  gather  the  lone  one  to  earth, 
I  spare  not  the  young  in  their  gay  dance  of  mirth, 
But  I  sweep  them  all  on  to  their  home  in  the  grave, 
I  stop  not  to  pity — I  stay  not  to  save. 


200  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

I  paused  in  my  pathway,  for  beauty  was  there; 
It  was  beauty  too  death-like,  too  cold,  and  too  fair! 
The  deep  purple  fountain  seemed  melting  away, 
And  the  faint  pulse  of  life  scarce  remembered  to  play; 
She  had  thought  on  the  tomb,  she  was  waiting  for  me, 
I  gazed,  I  passed  on,  and  her  spirit  was  free. 

The  clear  stream  rolled  gladly,  and  bounded  along, 
With  ripple,  and  murmur,  and  sparkle,  and  song; 
The  minstrel  was  tuning  his  wild  harp  to  love, 
And  sweet,  and  half-sad  were  the  numbers  he  wove. 
I  passed,  and  the  harp  of  the  bard  was  unstrung; 
O'er  the  stream  which  rolled  deeply,  'twas  recklessly 

hung; 

The  minstrel  was  not!  and  I  passed  on  alone, 
O'er  the  newly-raised  turf,  and  the  rudely-carved  stone. 


AUCTION  EXTRAORDINARY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  dreamed  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 
And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it,  it  came  into  numbers; 
My  thoughts  ran  along  in  such  beautiful  metre, 
I'm  sure  I  ne'er  saw  any  poetry  sweeter; 
It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made 
That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid: 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  201 

And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 
The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  could  well  carry. 
The  bachelors  grumbled,  and  said  'twas  no  use; 
'Twas  horrid  injustice,  and  horrid  abuse, 
And  declared  that  to  save  their  own  hearts'  blood  from 

spilling, 

Of  such  a  vile  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling. 
But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 
So  they  set  all  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vendue. 
A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 
To  rattle  his  bell,  and  his  trumpet  to  blow, 
And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way, 
Ho!  forty  old  bachelors  sold  here  to-day; 
And  presently  all  the  old  maids  in  the  town, 
Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 
From  thirty  to  sixty,  fair,  plain,  red,  and  pale, 
Of  every  description,  all  flocked  to  the  sale. 
The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labour  began, 
And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 
"How  much  for  a  bachelor?  who  wants  to  buy?" 
In  a  twink,*  every  maiden  responded,  "I, — I;" 
In  short,  at  a  highly-extravagant  price, 
The  bachelors  all  were  sold  off  in  a  trice; 
And  forty  old  maidens,  some  younger,  some  older, 
Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 

*  "  That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  tier  love."— Shakspeare. — 
[[EDITOR.] 


202  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE     BACHELOR. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

To  the  world,  (whose  dread  laugh  he  would  tremble 

to  hear, 
From  whose  scorn  he  would  shrink  with  a  cowardly 

fear,) 

The  old  bachelor  proudly  and  boldly  will  say, 
Single  lives  are  the  longest,  single  lives  are  most  gay. 

To  the  ladies,  with  pride,  he  will  always  declare, 
That  the  links  in  love's  chain  are  strife,  trouble,  and 

care; 

That  a  wife  is  a  torment,  and  he  will  have  none, 
But  at  pleasure  will  roam  through  the  wide  world 

alone. 

And  let  him  pass  on,  in  his  sulky  of  state; 
0  say,  who  would  envy  that  mortal  his  fate? 
To  brave  all  the  ills  of  life's  tempest  alone, 
Not  a  heart  to  respond  the  warm  notes  of  his  own. 

His  joys  undivided  no  longer  will  please; 
The  warm  tide  of  his  heart  through  inaction  will  freeze: 
His  sorrows  concealed,  and  unanswered  his  sighs, 
The  old  bachelor  curses  his  folly  and  dies. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  203 

Pass  on,  then,  proud  lone  one,  pass  on  to  thy' fate; 
Thy  sentence  is  sealed,  thy  repentance  too  late; 
Like  an  arrow,  which  leaves  not  a  trace  on  the  wind, 
No  mark  of  thy  pathway  shall  linger  behind. 

Not  a  sweet  voice  shall  murmur  its  sighs  o'er  thy  tomb; 
Not  a  fair  hand  shall  teach  thy  lone  pillow  to  bloom; 
Not  a  kind  tear  shall  water  thy  dark,  lonely  bed; 
By  the  living  'twas  scorned,  'tis  refused  to  the  dead. 


THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

TO  MISS  E.  C. — COMPOSED  ON  A  BLANK  LEAP  OP 
HER  PALEY,  DURING  RECITATION. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I'm  thy  guardian  angel,  sweet  maid,  and  I  rest 
In  mine  own  chosen  temple,  thy  innocent  breast; 
At  midnight  I  steal  from  my  sacred  retreat, 
When  the  chords  of  thy  heart  in  soft  unison  beat. 

When  thy  bright  eye  is  closed,  when  thy  dark  tresses 

flow 

In  beautiful  wreaths  o'er  thy  pillow  of  snow; 
0  then  I  watch  o'er  thee,  all  pure  as  thou  art, 
And  listen  to  music  which  steals  from  thy  heart. 


204  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Thy  smile  is  the  sunshine  which  gladdens  my  soul, 
My  tempest  the  clouds,  which  around  thee  may  roll; 
I  feast  my  light  form  on  thy  rapture-breathed  sighs, 
And  drink  at  the  fount  of  those  beautiful  eyes. 

The  thoughts  of  thy  heart  are  recorded  by  me; 
There  are  some  which,  half-breathed,  half  acknow 
ledged  by  thee, 

Steal  sweetly  and  silently  o'er  thy  pure  breast, 
Just  ruffling  its  calmness,  then  murm'ring  to  rest. 

Like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake,  when  it  breathlessly  lies, 
With  its  own  mirnic  mountains,  and  star-spangled 

skies, 

I  stretch  my  light  pinions  around  thee  when  sleeping, 
To  guard  thee  from  spirits  of  sorrow  and  weeping. 

I  breathe  o'er  thy  slumbers  sweet  dreams  of  delight, 
Till  you  wake  but  to  sigh  for  the  visions  of  night; 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  pathway  may  lie, 
Be  it  clouded  with  sorrow,  or  brilliant  with  joy, 
My  spirit  shall  watch  thee,  wherever  thou  art, 
My  incense  shall  rise  from  the  throne  of  thy  heart. 
Farewell!  for  the  shadows  of  evening  are  fled, 
And  the  young  rays  of  morning  are  wreathed  round 
my  head. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  205 


ON  THE  CREW  OF  A  VESSEL, 

WHO  WERE  FOUND  DEAD  AT  SEA. 
(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

The  breeze  blew  fair,  the  waving  sea 
Curled  sparkling  round  the  vessel's  side; 

The  canvass  spread  with  bosom  free 
Its  swan-like  pinions  o'er  the  tide. 

Evening  had  gemmed  with  glittering  stars, 

Her  coronet  so  darkly  grand; 
The  Queen  of  Night,  with  fleecy  clouds 

Had  formed  her  turban's  snowy  band. 

On,  on  the  stately  vessel  flew, 

With  streamer  waving  far  and  wide; 

When  lo!  a  bark  appeared  in  view, 
And  gaily  danced  upon  the  tide. 

Each  way  the  breeze  its  wild  wing  veered, 
That  way  the  stranger  vessel  turned; 

Now  near  she  drew,  now  wafted  far, 
She  fluttered,  trembled,  arid  returned. 

"It  is  the  pirate's  cursed  bark! 
The  villains  linger  to  decoy! 


206  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Thus  bounding  o'er  the  waters  dark, 
They  seek  to  lure,  and  then  destroy. 

"Perchance,  those  strange  and  wayward  signs 

May  be  the  signals  of  distress," 
The  Captain  cried,  "  for  mark  ye,  now, 

Her  sails  are  flapping  wide  and  loose." 

And  now  the  stranger  vessel  came 
Near  to  that  gay  and  gallant  bark; 

It  seemed  a  wanderer  fair  and  lone, 
Upon  Life's  wave,  so  deep  and  dark. 

And  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound, 

Came  from  that  lone  and  dreary  ship; 

The  icy  chains  of  silence  bound 
Each  rayless  eye  and  pallid  lip. 

For  Death's  wing  had  been  waving  there, 
The  cold  dew  hung  on  every  brow, 

And  sparkled  there,  like  angel  tears, 
Shed  o'er  the  silent  crew  below. 

Onward  that  ship  was  gaily  flying, 

Its  bosom  the  sailor's  grave; 
The  breeze,  'mid  the  shrouds,  in  low  notes,  sighing 

Their  requiem  over  the  brave. 

Fly  on,  fly  on,  thou  lone  vessel  of  death, 

Fly  on,  with  thy  desolate  crew; 
For  mermaids  are  twining  a  sea-weed  wreath, 

'Mong  the  red  coral  groves  for  you. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  2Q7 


WOMAN'S   LOVE. 

("Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

They  told  me  of  her  history — her  love 
Was  a  neglected  flame,  which  had  consumed 
The  rose  wherein  it  kindled.     0  how  fraught 
With  bitterness  is  unrequited  love! 
To  know  that  we  have  cast  life's  hope  away 
On  a  vain  shadow! 

Hers  was  a  gentle  passion,  quiet,  deep, 
As  a  woman's  love  should  be, 
All  tenderness  and  silence,  only  known 
By  the  soft  meaning  of  a  downcast  eye, 
Which  almost  fears  to  look  its  timid  thoughts; 
A  sigh,  scarce  heard;  a  blush,  scarce  visible, 
Alone  may  give  it  utterance. — Love  is 
A  beautiful  feeling  in  a  woman's  heart, 
When  felt,  as  only  woman  love  can  feel! 
Pure,  as  the  snow-fall,  when  its  latest  shower 
Sinks  on  spring-flowers;  deep,  as  a  cave-locked  foun 
tain; 

And  changeless  as  the  cypress'  green  leaves; 
And  like  them,  sad!     She  nourished 
Fond  hopes  and  sweet  anxieties,  and  fed 
A  passion  unconfessed,  till  he  she  loved 
Was  wedded  to  another. — Then  she  grew 
Moody  and  melancholy;  one  alone 


208  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Had  power  to  soothe  her  in  her  wanderings, 

Her  gentle  sister; — but  that  sister  died, 

And  the  unhappy  girl  was  left  alone, 

A  maniac. — She  would  wander  far,  and  shunned 

Her  own  accustomed  dwelling;  and  her  haunt 

Was  that  dead  sister's  grave:  and  that  to  her 

Was  as  a  home. 


TO     A     LADY, 

WHOSE  SINGING  RESEMBLED  THAT  OP  AN  ABSENT 
SISTER. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Oh!  touch  the  chord  yet  once  again, 
Nor  chide  me,  though  I  weep  the  while; 

Believe  me,  that  deep  seraph  strain 

Bore  with  it  memory's  moonlight  smile. 

It  murmured  of  an  absent  friend; 

The  voice,  the  air,  'twas  all  her  own; 
And  hers  those  wild,  sweet  notes,  which  blend 

In  one  mild,  mumuring,  touching  tone. 

And  days  and  months  have  darkly  passed, 

Since  last  I  listened  to  her  lay; 
And  Sorrow's  cloud  its  shade  hath  cast, 

Since  then,  across  my  weary  way. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  2Q9 

Yet  still  the  strain  comes  sweet  and  clear, 
Like  seraph-whispers,  lightly  breathing; 

Hush,  busy  memory,  Sorrow's  tear 

Will  blight  the  garland  thou  art  wreathing. 

7Tis  sweet,  though  sad — yes,  I  will  stay, 

I  cannot  tear  myself  away. 

I  thank  thee,  lady,  for  the  strain, 

The  tempest  of  my  soul  is  still; 
Then  touch  the  chord  yet  once  again, 

For  thou  canst  calm  the  storm  at  will; 


TO  MY  FRIEND  AND  PATRON, 

M K ,  ESQ. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

And  can  my  simple  harp  be  strung 
To  higher  theme,  to  nobler  end, 

Than  that  of  gratitude  to  thee, 
To  thee,  my  father  and  my  friend? 

I  may  not,  cannot,  will  not  say 

All  that  a  grateful  heart  would  breathe; 
But  I  may  frame  a  simple  lay, 

Nor  Slander  blight  the  blushing  wreath. 
14 


210  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Yes,  I  will  touch  the  string  to  thee, 
Nor  fear  its  wildness  will  offend; 

For  well  I  know  that  thou  wilt  be, 
What  thou  hast  ever  been — a  friend. 

There  are,  whose  cold  and  idle  gaze 
Would  freeze  the  current  where  it  flows; 

But  Gratitude  shall  guard  the  fount, 
And  Faith  shall  light  it  as  it  flows. 

Then  tell  me,  may  I  dare  to  twine 
While  o'er  my  simple  harp  I  bend, 

This  little  offering  for  thee, 
For  thee,  my  father,  and  my  friend? 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


ON  SEEING 

A  PICTURE  OF  THE  VIRGIN  MARY, 

PAINTED  SEVERAL  CENTURIES  SINCE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell 

Of  book,  of  rosary,  and  bell; 

Of  cloistered  nun,  with  brow  of  gloom, 

Immured  within  her  living  tomb; 

Of  monks,  of  saints,  and  vesper-song, 

Borne  gently  by  the  breeze  along: 

Of  deep-toned  organ's  pealing  swell; 

Of  Ave  Marie,  and  funeral  knell; 

Of  midnight  taper,  dim  and  small, 

Just  glimmering  through  the  high-arched  hall; 

Of  gloomy  cell,  of  penance  lone, 

Which  can  for  darkest  deeds  atone; 

Roll  back,  and  lift  the  vale  of  night, 

For  I  would  view  the  anchorite. 

Yes,  there  he  sits,  so  sad,  so  pale, 

Shuddering  at  Superstition's  tale; 

Crossing  his  breast  with  meagre  hand, 

While  saints  and  priests,  a  motley  band, 


212  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Arrayed  before  him,  urge  their  claim 

To  heal  in  the  Redeemer's  name; 

To  mount  the  saintly  ladder,  (made 

By  every  monk,  of  every  grade, 

From  portly  abbot,  fat  and  fair, 

To  yon  lean  starveling,  shivering  there, 

And  mounting  thus,  to  usher  in 

The  soul,  thus  ransomed  from  its  sin. 

And  tell  me,  hapless  bigot,  why, 

For  what,  for  whom  did  Jesus  die, 

If  pyramids  of  saints  must  rise 

To  form  a  passage  to  the  skies? 

And  think  you  man  can  wipe  away 

With  fast  and  penance,  day  by  day, 

One  single  sin,  too  dark  to  fade 

Before  a  bleeding  Saviour's  shade? 

O  ye  of  little  faith,  beware! 

For  neither  shrift,  nor  saint,  nor  prayer. 

Would  aught  avail  ye  without  Him, 

Beside  whom  saints  themselves  grow  dim. 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  raise 

The  faded  forms  of  other  days! 

Yon  time-worn  picture,  darkly  grand, 

The  work  of  some  forgotten  hand, 

Will  teach  thee  half  thy  mazy  way, 

While  Fancy's  watch-fires  dimly  play. 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell 

Of  secret  charm,  of  holy  spell, 

Of  Superstition's  midnight  rite, 

Of  wild  Devotion's  seraph  flight, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  213 

Of  Melancholy's  tearful  eye, 
Of  the  sad  votaress'  frequent  sigh, 
That  trembling  from  her  bosom  rose, 
Divided  'twixt  her  Saviour's  woes 
And  some  warm  image  lingering  there, 
Which,  half-repulsed  by  midnight  prayer, 
Still,  like  an  outcast  child,  will  creep 
Where  sweetly  it  was  wont  to  sleep. 
And  mingle  its  unhallowed  sigh 
With  cloister-prayer  and  rosary; 
Then  tell  the  pale,  deluded  one 
Her  vows  are  breathed  to  God  alone; 
Those  vows,  which  tremulously  rise, 

Love's  last,  love's  sweetest  sacrifice. 

[  Unfinished.'} 


214  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


AMERICAN  POETRY.      , 

A  FRAGMENT. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Must  every  shore  ring  boldly  to  the  voice 

Of  sweet  poetic  harmony,  save  this? 

Rouse  thee,  America!  for  shame!  for  shame! 

Gather  thy  infant  bands,  and  rise  to  join 
Thy  glimmering  taper  to  the  holy  flame:  — 

Such  honour,  if  no  other,  may  be  thine. 
Shall  Gallia's  children  sing  beneath  the  yoke? 

Shall  Ireland's  harpstrings  thrill,  though  all  unstrung? 
And  must  America,  her  bondage  broke, 

Oppression's  blood-stains  from  her  garment  wrung, 
Must  she  be  silent? — who  may  then  rejoice? 

If  she  be  tuneless,  Harmony,  farewell! 
Oh!  shame,  America!  wild  freedom's  voice 

Echoes,  "shame  on  thee,"  from  her  wild- wood  dell. 
Shall  conquered  Greece  still  sing  her  glories  past? 
Shall  humbled  Italy  in  ruins  smile? 
And  canst  thou  then [  Unfinished.'] 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  215 


HEADACHE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year. 

Headache!  thou  bane  to  Pleasure's  fairy  spell, 
Thou  fiend,  thou  foe  to  joy,  I  know  thee  well! 
Beneath  thy  lash  I've  writhed  for  many  an  hour, — 
I  hate  thee,  for  I've  known,  and  dread  thy  power. 

Even  the  heathen  gods  were  made  to  feel 
The  aching  torments  which  thy  hand  can  deal; 
And  Jove,  the  ideal  king  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Owned  thy  dread  power,  which  called  stern  Wisdom 
forth. 

Wouldst  thou  thus  ever  bless  each  aching  head, 
And  bid  Minerva  make  the  brain  her  bed, 
Blessings  might  then  be  taught  to  rise  from  wo, 
And  Wisdom  spring  from  every  throbbing  brow. 

But  always  the  reverse  to  me,  unkind, 
Folly  forever  dogs  thee  close  behind; 
And  from  this  burning  brow,  her  cap  and  bell, 
Forever  jingle  Wisdom's  funeral  knell. 


216  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


TO  A  STAR. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Thou  brightly-glittering  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  Heaven, 
Oh!  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 
How  quick  'twould  spread  its  wings  to  thee. 

How  calmly,  brightly  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  Virtue's  shrine! 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  mayst  boast 
Was  never  ransomed,  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  Heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys  together  share; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string, 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  Heaven's  refulgent  lights; 
There  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll, 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  Heaven, 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee, 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  217 


SONG  OF  VICTORY, 

FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  GOLIATH. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Strike  with  joy  the  wild  harp's  string, 
God,  0  Israel,  is  your  King! 
We  have  slain  our  deadliest  foe, 
David's  arm  hath  laid  him  low. 

Saul  hath  oft  his  thousands  slain, 
His  trophies  have  bedecked  the  plain; 
But  David's  tens  of  thousands  lie 
In  slaughtered  millions,  mounted  high. 

Sound  the  trumpet — strike  the  string, 
Loud  let  the  song  of  victory  ring; 
Wreathe  with  glory  David's  brow, 
He  hath  laid  Goliath  low. 

Mark  him  on  your  crimson  plain, 
He  is  conquered — he  is  slain; 
He  who  lately  rose  so  high, 
Scoffed  at  man,  and  braved  the  sky. 

Strike  with  joy  the  wild  harp's  string, 
God,  0  Israel,  is  your  King! 


218  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

We  have  slain  our  deadliest  foe, 
David's  arm  hath  laid  him  low. 


THE  INDIAN  CHIEF  AND  CONCONAY. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

The  Indian  Chieftain  is  far  away, 

Through  the  forest  his  footsteps  fly, 
But  his  heart  is  behind  him  with  Conconay, 
He  thinks  of  his  love  in  the  bloody  fray, 

When  the  storm  of  war  is  high. 

But  little  he  thinks  of  the  bloody  foe, 

Who  is  bearing  that  love  away; 
And  little  he  thinks  of  her  bosom's  wo, 
And  little  he  thinks  of  the  burning  brow 

Of  his  lovely  Conconay. 

They  tore  her  away  from  her  friends,  from  her  home, 

They  tore  her  away  from  her  Chief. 
Through  the  wild-wood,  when  weary,  they  forced  her 

to  roam, 
Or  to  dash  the  light  oar  in  the  river's  white  foam, 

While  her  bosom  o'erflowed  with  grief. 

But  there  came  a  foot,  'twas  swift,  'twas  light, 

'Twas  the  brother  of  him  she  loved; 
His  heart  was  kind,  and  his  eye  was  bright; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  319 

He  paused  not  by  day,  and  he  slept  not  by  night, 
While  through  the  wild  forest  he  roved. 

-  .  '  <- 

'Twas  Lightfoot,  the  generous,  'twas  Lightfoot  the 

young, 

And  he  loved  the  sweet  Conconay; 
But  his  bosom  to  honour  and  virtue  was  strung, 
And  the  chords  of  his  heart  should  to  breaking  be 

wrung, 
Ere  love  should  gain  o'er  him  the  sway. 

Far,  far  from  her  stem  foes  he  bore  her  away, 

And  sought  his  own  forest  once  more; 
But  sad  was  the  heart  of  the  young  Conconay, 
Her  bosom  recoiled  when  she  strove  to  be  gay, 
And  was  even  more  drear  than  before. 

'Tis  evening,  and  weary,  and  faint,  and  weak 

Is  the  beautiful  Conconay; 

She  could  wander  no  farther,  she  strove  to  speak, 
But  lifeless  she  sunk  upon  Lightfoot's  neck, 

And  seemed  breathing  her  soul  away. 

The  young  warrior  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven, 

He  turned  them  towards  the  west; 
For  one  moment  a  ray  of  light  was  given, 
Like  lightning,  which  through  the  cloud  hath  riven 

But  to  strike  at  the  fated  breast. 

For  there  was  his  brother  returning  from  far, 
O'er  his  shoulder  his  scalps  were  slung; 


220  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

For  he  had  been  victor  amid  the  war, 
His  plume  had  gleamed  like  the  polar  star, 
And  on  him  had  the  victory  hung. 

The  Chieftain  paused  in  his  swift  career, 

For  he  knew  his  Conconay; 
He  saw  the  maid  his  heart  held  dear, 
On  the  breast  of  his  brother,  in  the  forest  drear, 

From  her  home  so  far  away. 

He  bent  his  bow,  the  arrow  flew, 

It  was  aimed  at  Lightfoot's  breast; 
And  it  pierced  a  heart,  as  warm  and  true 
As  ever  a  mortal  bosom  knew, 

Or  in  mortal  garb  was  dressed. 

He  turned  to  his  love — from  her  brilliant  eye 

The  cloud  was  passing  away; 
She  let  fall  a  tear — she  breathed  a  sigh — 
She  turned  towards  Lightfoot — she  uttered  a  cry, 

For  weltering  in  gore  he  lay. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  horror  and  wo, 

When  she  gazed  on  the  form  of  her  Chief; 
'Twas  his  loved  hand  that  had  bent  the  bow, 
JTwas  he  who  had  laid  her  preserver  low; 
And  she  yielded  her  soul  to  grief. 

And  'twas  said,  that  ere  time  had  healed  the  wound 

In  the  breast  of  the  mourning  maid, 
That  a  pillar  was  reared  on  the  fatal  ground, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  22l 

And  ivy  the  snow-white  monument  crowned 
With  its  dark  and  jealous  shade. 


THE   MOTHER'S   LAMENT 

FOR  HER  INFANT. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Cold  is  his  brow,  and  the  dew  of  the  evening 
Hangs  damp  o'er  that  form  I  so  fondly  caressed; 

Dim  is  that  eye,  which  once  sparkled  with  gladness, 
Hushed  are  the  griefs  of  my  infant  to  rest. 

Calmly  he  lies  on  a  bosom  far  colder 

Than  that  which  once  pillowed  his  health-blushing 

cheek; 
Calmly  he'll  rest  there,  and  silently  moulder, 

No  grief  to  disturb  him,  no  sigh  to  awake. 

Dread  king  of  the  grave,  Oh!  return  me  my  child! 

Unfetter  his  heart  from  the  cold  chains  of  death! 
Monarch  of  terrors,  so  gloomy,  so  silent, 

Loose  the  adamant  clasp  of  thy  cold  icy  wreath! 

Where  is  my  infant?  the  storms  may  descend, 
The  snows  of  the  winter  may  cover  his  head; 


222  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  wing  of  the  wind  o'er  his  low  couch  may  bend, 
And  the  frosts  of  the  night  sparkle  bright  o'er  the 
dead. 

Where  is  my  infant?  the  damp  ground  is  cold, 
Too  cold  for  those  features  so  laughing  and  light; 

Methinks,  these  fond  arms  should  encircle  his  form, 
And  shield  off  the  tempest  which  wanders  at  night. 

This  fond  bosom  loved  him,  ah!  loved  him  too  dearly, 
And  the  frail  idol  fell,  while  I  bent  to  adore; 

All  its  beauty  has  faded,  and  broken  before  me 
Is  the  god  my  heart  ventured  to  worship  before. 

'Tis  just,  and  I  bow  'neath  the  mandate  of  Heaven, 
Thy  will,  oh,  my  Father!  for  ever  be  done! 

Bless  God,  0  my  soul,  for  the  chastisement  given, 
Henceforth  will  I  worship  my  Saviour  alone! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  223 


ON  THE  MOTTO  OF  A  SEAL. 

"IF  I  LOSE  THEE,  I  AM  LOST." 

ADDRESSED    TO    A    FRIEND. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Wafted  o'er  a  treacherous  sea, 
Far  from  home,  and  far  from  thee; 
Between  the  Heaven  and  ocean  tossed, 
« If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 

When  the  polar  star  is  beaming 
O'er  the  dark-browed  billows  gleaming, 
I  think  of  thee  and  dangers  crossed, 
For,  "if  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 

When  the  lighthouse  fire  is  blazing, 
High  towards  Heaven  its  red  crest  raising, 
I  think  of  thee,  while  onward  tossed, 
For  "  if  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 


224  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


MORNING. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  come  in  the  breath  of  the  wakened  breeze, 
I  kiss  the  flowers,  and  I  bend  the  trees; 
And  I  shake  the  dew,  which  hath  fallen  by  night, 
From  its  throne,  on  the  lily's  pure  bosom  of  white. 
Awake  thee,  when  bright  from  my  couch  in  the  sky, 
I  beam  o'er  the  mountains,  and  come  from  on  high; 
When  my  gay  purple  banners  are  waving  afar; 
When  my  herald,  gray  dawn,  hath  extinguished  each 

star; 

When  I  smile  on  the  woodlands,  and  bend  o'er  the  lake, 
Then  awake  thee,  0  maiden,  I  bid  thee  awake! 
Thou  mayst  slumber  when  all  the  wide  arches  of 

Heaven 

Glitter  bright  with  the  beautiful  fires  of  even; 
When  the  moon  walks  in  glory,  and  looks  from  on  high, 
O'er  the  clouds  floating  far  through  the  clear  azure  sky, 
Drifting  on  like  the  beautiful  vessels  of  Heaven, 
To  their  far  away  harbour,  all  silently  driven, 
Bearing  on,  in  their  bosoms,  the  children  of  light, 
Who  have  fled  from  this  dark  world  of  sorrow  and 

night; 
When  the  lake  lies  in  calmness  and  darkness,  save 

where 
The  bright  ripple  curls,  'neath  the  smile  of  a  star; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  225 

When  all  is  in  silence  and  solitude  here, 
Then  sleep,  maiden,  sleep!  without  sorrow  or  fear! 
But  when  I  steal  silently  over  the  lake, 
Awake  thee  then,  maiden,  awake!  oh,  awake! 


SHAKSPEARE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Shakspeare!  "  with  all  thy  faults,  (and  few  have  more,) 

I  love  thee  still,"  and  still  will  con  thee  o'er. 

Heaven,  in  compassion  to  man's  erring  heart, 

Gave  thee  of  virtue — then,  of  vice  a  part, 

Lest  we,  in  wonder  here,  should  bow  before  thee, 

Break  God's  commandment,  worship,  and  adore  thee: 

But  admiration  now,  and  sorrow  join; 

His  works  we  reverence,  while  we  pity  thine. 


15 


226  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

WHOM  I  HAD  NOT  SEEN  SINCE  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

And  thou  hast  marked,  in  childhood's  hour, 
The  fearless  boundings  of  my  breast, 

When  fresh  as  Summer's  opening  flower, 
I  freely  frolicked,  and  was  blessed. 

Oh!  say,  was  not  this  eye  more  bright? 

Were  not  these  lips  more  wont  to  smile? 
Methinks  that  then  my  heart  was  light, 

And  I  a  fearless,  joyous  child. 

And  thou  didst  mark  me  gay  and  wild, 
My  careless,  reckless  laugh  of  mirth; 

The  simple  pleasures  of  a  child, 
The  holiday  of  man  on  earth. 

Then  thou  hast  seen  me  in  that  hour, 
When  every  nerve  of  life  was  new, 

When  pleasures  fanned  youth's  infant  flower, 
And  Hope  her  witcheries  round  it  threw. 

That  hour  is  fading,  it  has  fled, 
And  I  am  left  in  darkness  now; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  227 


A  wand'rer  towards  a  lowly  bed, 
The  grave,  that  home  of  all  below. 


THE  FEAR  OF  MADNESS. 

WRITTEN  WHILE  CONFINED  TO  HER  BED,   DURING  HER 
LAST  ILLNESS. 

There  is  a  something  which  I  dread, 

It  is  a  dark,  a  fearful  thing; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread, 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 
Of  grief,  of  sickness,  or  of  sadness; 

'Tis  not  the  dread  of  death — 'tis  more, 
It  is  the  dread  of  madness. 

Oh !  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause, 
Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course; 

May  this  hot  brain,  which  burning,  glows 
With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  force, 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still, 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed, 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal — 

******** 

[  Unfinished.'] 

(This  was  the  last  piece  she  ever  wrote.) 


223  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


MARITORNE, 

OR    THE 

PIRATE    OF    MEXICO. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

ON  Barritaria's  brow  the  watch-fires  glow, 

Their  beacons  beaming  on  the  gulf  below, 

As  if  to  dare  some  death  devoted  hand 

To  quench  in  blood  the  boldly  blazing  brand; 

Some  Orlean  herald  arm'd  with  threat'ning  high 

To  daunt  the  Pirate-chieftain's  haughty  eye, 

To  bid  him  bend  to  tame  and  vulgar  law, 

And  bow  to  painted  things  with  tremb'ling  awe, 

Such  herald  well  may  come, — but  wo  betide 

The  self-devoted  messenger  of  pride! 

Such  herald  well  may  come,  but  far  and  near 

The  name  of  Maritorne  is  joined  with  fear; 

His  vessels  proudly  ride  the  Gulf  at  will, 

Whilst  he  is  Chief  of  Barritaria's  Isle. 

The  iron  hand  of  power  is  rais'd  in  vain, 

Whilst  Maritorne  is  master  of  the  main. 

'Tis  his  to  sacrifice — 'tis  his  to  spare — 

He  moves  in  silence,  and  is  everywhere. 

His  victims  must  with  pompous  boldness  bleed, 

But  if  he  pities,  who  may  tell  the  deed? 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  339 

'Tis  done  in  secret,  that  no  eye  may  mark 

One  thought  more  gentle,  or  one  act  less  dark. 

And  he,  the  governor  of  yon  fair  land 

Whose  tongue  speaks  freedom,  but  whose  guilty  hand 

Grasps  the  half  loos'ned  manacles  again, 

And  adds  unseen  fresh  links  to  slavery's  chain, 

Hated  full  deeply,  dreaded  and  abhorr'd 

The  Pirate-chief,  the  haughty  island  lord. 

And  cause  enough,  deep  hidden  in  his  breast, 

Had  he,  the  moody  leader  of  the  west, 

To  hate  that  fearful  man,  who  stood  alone 

Feared,  dreaded,  and  detested,  tho'  unknown; 

That  cause  was  smother'd  or  burst  forth  to  light, 

Wreath'd  in  the  incense  of  a  patriot's  right, 

To  drive  the  bold  intruder  from  the  shore, 

Where  war  and  bloodshed  must  appear  no  more; 

But  deep  within  his  heart  the  crater  glow'd 

From  whence  this  gilded  stream  of  lava  flow'd; 

JTwas  wounded  pride,  which,  writhing  inly,  bled, 

And  called  for  vengeance  on  the  offender's  head; 

For  Maritorne,  with  bold  unbending  brow, 

Had  scorn'd  his  power — that  were  enough;— but  lo! 

There,  on  the  very  threshold  of  his  home, 

There  had  the  traitor  Pirate  dar'd  to  come, 

And  thence  had  borne  his  own,  his  only  child, 

Mate  all  unfit  for  Maritorne  the  wild; 

And  when  the  maiden  curs'd  him  in  her  breast 

Those  curses  came  not  o'er  him — he  was  blest — 

For  but  to  gaze  upon  her,  and  to  feel 

That  she  whom  he  ador'd  was  near  him  still, 


230  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Was  bliss!  was  Heav'n  itself!  and  he  whose  eye 

Bent  not  to  aught  of  dull  mortality 

Shrunk  with  a  tremulous  delight  whene'er 

The  voice  of  Laura  rose  upon  his  ear; 

That  voice  had  pow'r  to  quell  the  fiend  within, 

Whose  touch  had  turn'd  his  very  soul  to  sin. 

That  fiend  was  vengeance; — e'en  his  virtues  bow'd 

Before  the  altar  which  to  vengeance  glow'd. 

His  virtues?  yes;  for  even  fiends  may  boast 

A  shadow  of  the  glory  they  have  lost, — 

But  oh!  like  them,  his  crimes  were  dark  and  deep, 

For  vengeance  was  awake, — can  vengeance  sleep? 

Yes;  sleep,  as  tigers  sleep,  with  half  shut  eye, 

Crouching  to  spring  upon  the  passer  by, 

With  parch 'd  tongue  cleaving  to  its  blacken'd  cell, 

Stifling  with  thirst,  and  jaws  which  hunger  fell 

Hath  sharply  whetted,  quiv'ring  to  devour 

The  reckless  wretch  abandon'd  to  his  pow'r. 

Yes:  thus  may  vengeance  sleep  in  breast  like  his, 

Where  thoughts  of  wild  revenge  are  thoughts  of  bliss. 

Thus  may  it  sleep,  like  ^Etna's  burning  breast, 

To  burst  in  thunders  when  'tis  dreaded  least; 

For  his  had  been  the  joyless,  thankless  part, 

Of  one  who  warm'd  a  viper  at  his  heart, 

And  clasp'd  the  venom'd  reptile  to  his  breast 

Till  wounded  by  the  ingrate  he  caress'd. 

Such  had  been  Maritorne's  accursed  fate 

Ere  he  became  the  harden'd  child  of  hate. 

At  first  his  breast  was  torn  with  anguish  wild, 

He  curs'd  himself,  then  bitterly  revil'd 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  331 

The  world,  as  hollow-hearted,  false,  unkind; 

He  curs'd  himself,  and  doubly  curs'd  mankind; 

And  then  his  heart  grew  callous,  and  like  steel 

Grasp'd  in  his  hand,  had  equal  power  to  feel. 

'Twas  like  yon  mountain  snow  crest,  chill  tho'  bright, 

Cold  to  the  touch,  but  dazzling  to  the  sight, 

Till  when  the  hour  of  darkness  gathers,  then 

The  sunbeam  fades,  the  ice  grows  dim  again. 

He  had  a  friend,  one  on  whom  fancy's  eye 

Had  deeply,  rashly  stamp'd  fidelity: 

Traitor  had  better  seem'd — worm — viper — aught — 

The  vilest,  veriest  wretch  e'er  named  in  thought, 

For  he  was  sin's  own  son,  and  all  that  e'er 

Angels  above  may  hate  or  mortals  fear. 

There  was  a  fascination  in  his  eye 

Which  those  who  felt,  might  seek  in  vain  to  fly. 

There  was  blasting  glance  of  mockery  there, 

There  was  a  calm,  contemptuous,  biting  sneer 

For  ever  on  his  lip,  which  made  men  fear, 

And  fearing  shun  him,  as  a  bird  will  shun 

A  gilded  bait,  tho'  glittering  in  the  sun; 

But  still  the  mask  of  friendship  he  could  wear, 

The  smile,  the  warm  professions  all  were  there; 

Let  him  who  trusts  to  these  alone — beware! 

A  lurking  devil  may  be  crouching  there. 

Shame  on  mankind  that  they  will  stoop  to  use 

Wiles  which  the  imps  of  darkness  would  refuse. 

Henceforth  let  friendship  drop  her  robes  of  light, 

And  following  desolation's  blasting  flight 


232  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

There  pac'd  the  Pirate  Chief  with  giant  stride, 

Deep  chorus  keeping  to  the  Mexic  tide; 

His  sable  plumes  were  hov'ring  o'er  his  brow, 

As  if  to  hide  the  depth  of  thought  below. 

He  paus'd, — 'twas  but  the  dashing  of  the  spray — 

Again! — 'twas  but  the  night-watch  on  his  way. 

He  only  mutter'd,  gnash'd  his  teeth  and  smil'd, 

Fit  mirth  were  that,  so  ghastly  and  so  wild, 

To  grace  a  Pirate  Chieftain's  scornful  lip, 

'Twas  like  St.  Helmo's  night-fire  o'er  the  deep. 

The  beacon  blaze  is  burning  on  the  shore, 

But  burns  it  not  more  dimly  than  before? 

Perchance  the  drowzy  sentinel  is  sleeping, 

His  weary  vigils  negligently  keeping. 

So  thought  the  Chief,  but  still  his  wary  eye 

Was  fix'd  intently  between  earth  and  sky, 

As  if  its  quick  keen  glance  would  light  the  flame, 

And  blast  the  sleeper  with  remorse  and  shame. 

He  starts — suspicion  flashes  on  his  brain — 

He  grasps  his  dagger — by  St.  Mark — again! 

His  bugle  brightly  glitter'd  on  his  breast; 

His  lip  the  gilded  bauble  gently  press'd — 

One  breath,  one  sigh,  and  rock  and  hill  and  sea, 

Will  echo  back  the  warlike  minstrelsy. 

The  figure  which  had  slowly  pass'd  between 

Himself  and  yonder  blaze,  sank  where  'twas  seen, 

As  tho'  the  earth  had  gaped  with  sudden  yawn, 

And  drank  both  fire  and  form  in  silence  down; 

The  beacon  was  extinguish'd,  rock  and  tree 

And  beetling  cliff,  and  wildly  foaming  sea 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  333 

Were  hid  in  darkness,  for  the  deep  red  light 
Which  faintly  sketched  them  on  the  brow  of  night 
Was  dim,  as  was  the  moon's  pale  tremulous  glow, 
For  tempest- clouds  were  rallying  round  her  brow; 


The  sound  of  a  footstep  is  on  the  shore, 

It  dies  away  in  the  surge's  roar; 

It  is  heard  again  as  the  angry  spray 

Rolls  back  and  foams  its  shame  away; 

And  shrill  and  clear  was  the  call  of  alarm, 

'Twas  like  the  breaking  of  spell  or  charm; 

It  scream'd  o'er  the  dark  wave,  it  rose  to  the  hill, 

And  the  answering  echoes  re-echoed  it  still. 

A  rushing  sound  as  of  coming  waves, 

A  glittering  band  as  if  burst  from  their  graves, 

Are  the  answers  which  wake  at  the  bidding  clear 

Of  him,  the  Lord  of  the  Isle  of  Fear. 

But  scarce  had  the  summons  in  silence  died 

When  the  foot  which  had  waked  the  tumult  wide, 

Was  pressing  the  sand  where  it  yielding  gave 

To  the  lightest  tread  as  'twas  washed  by  the  wave; 

By  the  side  of  the  Pirate,  with  outstretch'd  hand, 

The  bold  intruder  look'd  round  on  the  band; 

But  none  saw  the  face  of  that  being  save  he; 

In  wonder  he  gaz'd — in  his  eye  you  might  see 

Surprise,  and  shame,  and  a  fiend-like  gleam, 

Which  whisper'd  of  more  than  fear  might  dream; 

And  is  it  for  this — for  a  woman  like  thee? 

He  angrily  tnutter'd  and  turn'd  to  the  sea — 


234  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  is  it  for  this  I  have  sounded  the  call 

Whose  notes  may  never  unanswer'd  fall; 

Whose  lowest  tone  is  the  knell  of  more 

Than  can  crowd  at  once  upon  Hell's  hroad  shore? 

And  is  it  for  this,  I  must  idly  stand 

To  trace  the  wave  with  my  sword  on  the  strand? 

Speak! — tell  me — or  now  by  the  blood  on  its  blade, 

I  will  give  to  that  pale  cheek  a  deadlier  shade. 

The  beacon!  the  beacon — she  turn'd  to  the  spot, 

And  pointed  the  chief  where  the  light  was  not; 

The  murmur  ran  thro'  the  waiting  crowd, 

It  was  loud  at  first  but  it  grew  more  loud, 

Till  the  Beacon,  the  Beacon — rang  on  to  the  sky, 

But  its  light  was  extinguish'd,  no  blaze  met  the  eye; 

Thus  much  for  the  moment — thy  honour  is  clear, 

If  it  suffers  then  look  for  thy  recompense  here; 

And  she  threw  back  her  mantle  and  gave  to  the  light 

Which  glared  from  the  torches  all  flamingly  bright 

A  form  which  e'en  Maritorne  mark'd  not  unmov'd, 

But  'twas  one  which  he  did  not,  nor  ever  had  lov'd. 

There  are  spies  who  are  waiting  in  ambush  for  thee; 

I  mark'd  out  the  cavern — 'twas  near  to  the  sea; 

They  are  few,  they  are  bold,  they  are  guided  by  one 

Who  has  sworn  e'er  the  dawn  of  another  day's  sun 

To  lead  thee  in  triumph,  unwounded,  unharm'd, 

To  yonder  proud  city  all  chain'd  and  unarm'd; 

This  swears  he,  by  all  that  is  sacred  to  do, 

I  heard  it,  and  hasten'd  thus  breathless  to  you. 

For  pardon  1  sue  not,  0  punish  my  crime! 

Here,  here  is  my  bosom,  and  now  is  the  time! — 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  235 

The  last  moment  beheld  me  imploring  for  breath, 
Now  'tis  not  worth  asking — I  sue  but  for  death. 
The  ocean  was  roaring  too  loudly  to  hear 
The  words  she  was  speaking,  the  Chief  bent  his  ear; 
His  dark  plume  was  resting  half  fearfully  there, 
Upon  the  white  brow  of  the  beautiful  Clare; 
As  a  being  all  guilty  and  trembling  would  rest 
Self-accused,  self-condemn'd  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 
And  he,  its  wild  wearer,  how  heard  he  the  tale? 
His  eye  flash'd  the  darker,  his  lip  grew  more  pale; 
But  when  it  was  finish'd  and  Clara  knelt  down, 
Where,  where  was  his  anger,  and  where  was  his 

frown? 

On  her  forehead  he  printed  a  passionate  kiss — 
Oh  Clara  forgive  me — remember  not  this, 
But  forget  not  that  thou,  and  thou  only,  shall  know 
The  cause  of  my  madness,  my  guilt,  and  my  wo. 
If  I  fall,  thou  wilt  read  it  in  letters  of  blood 
'Neath  the  stone,  near  the  rock,  where  the  beacon-light 

glow'd; 

If  I  live — and  he  hastily  bowed  himself — then — 
The  Fiend  and  the  pirate  were  masters  again. 


A  light  is  on  the  waters,  and  the  dip 

Of  distant  oars  is  heard  from  steep  to  steep; 

The  hum  of  voices  float  upon  the  air, 

Soft,  yet  distinct,  tho'  distant,  full  and  clear. 

Come  they  to  Barritaria's  Isle  as  midnight  foes? 

'Tis  well! — the  world  but  roughly  with  them  goes. 


236  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Come  they  to  Barritaria's  Isle  to  join 
Their  traitor  arms,  proud  Maritorne,  with  thine? 
Oh,  better  had  they  never  left  yon  shore, 
To  which  they  may  return  again  no  more. 
Fools! — think  they  he  is  bleeding  in  a  strife 
Where  every  drop  writes  guilt  upon  his  life 
For  gold,  for  fame,  for  power,  for  aught  on  earth 
Which  vulgar  minds  might  think  were  richly  worth 
A  life  of  bloodshed  arid  dishonour?  No! 
They  read  not  right,  who  read  yon  pirate  so; 
The  plash  of  troubled  waters,  and  the  sound 
Of  moving  vessels  grating  o'er  the  ground, 
The  quick  low  hum  of  voices,  the  faint  gush 
Of  light  waves  gurgling  as  with  sudden  rush 
They  feebly  kiss'd  the  bark,  then  sunk  away, 
As  half  repenting  them  such  welcome  gay, 
Were  caught  perchance,  by  some  lone  fisher's  ear, 
Who  plied  his  line,  or  net  at  midnight  here; 
Perhaps  he  started  from  his  drowsy  mood 
And  toss'd  his  bait  still  further  down  the  flood; 
But  be  that  as  it  may,  'twas  heard  no  more, 
And  list'ning  silence  hover'd  o'er  the  shore. 
And  yonder  fire  the  battle  sign  is  beaming, 
Far  o'er  the  dusky  waters  redly  streaming, 
The  shadow  of  the  Pirate-ship  lies  there, 
Its  banners  feebly  dancing  in  the  air; 
Its  broad  sails  veering  idly  to  and  fro, 
Now  glitt'ring  'neath  the  full  moon's  silver  glow, 
Now  black'ning  in  the  shade  of  night's  dull  frown, 
'Twas  like  its  chief,  in  silence  and  alone, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  337 

Gazing  upon  the  shadow  which  it  cast 

O'er  ev'ry  rippling  wave  which  gently  pass'd.; 

And  such  had  been  his  joyless,  gloomy  lot, 

Forgetting  all  mankind,  by  all  forgot, 

Save  that  accursed  one  whose  blasting  eye 

Was  glaring  on  him, — 'twas  in  vain  to  fly 

While  vengeance  whisper'd  curses  in  his  ear, 

And  thought,  the  demon  thought  receiv'd  them  there. 

But  it  had  ever  been  his  lot  to  throw 

O'er  those  who  pass'd  him,  shades  of  gloom  and  woe; 

His  love  for  Laura  had  been  deeply  curs'd, 

Hatred's  black  phial  o'er  his  brow  had  burst; 

He  felt  himself  detested,  and  he  knew 

That  she  whom  he  adored  abhorr'd  him  too. 

But  oh  the  hapless,  the  ill-fated  one, 

She  who  could  love  him  for  himself  alone, 

Love  him,,  with  all  his  crimes  upon  his  head, 

Love,  when  the  crowd  with  detestation  fled; — 

A  deep  dark  shade,  a  wild,  a  with'ring  blast     .v*. 

Fell  o'er  her  destiny;  the  die  was  cast — 

She  was  a  wretched  one,  a  sweet  flower  faded, 

Whose  wand'ring    tendrils    round    the    nightshade 

braided, 

Clung  to  its  baleful  breast— hung  drooping  there 
Self  sacrificed,  it  drank  the  poisoned  air 
And  with'ring    *********** 

[  Unfinished,'} 


238  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


AMERICA. 

("Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

And  this  was  once  the  realm  of  nature,  where 

Wild  as  the  wind,  tho'  exquisitely  fair, 

She  breath'd  the  mountain  breeze,  or  bow'd  to  kiss 

The  dimpling  waters  with  unbounded  bliss. 

Here  in  this  Paradise  of  earth,  where  first 

Wild  mountain  liberty  began  to  burst, 

Once  Nature's  temple  rose  in  simple  grace, 

The  hill  her  throne,  the  world  her  dwelling  place. 

And  where  are  now  her  lakes  so  still  and  lone, 

Her  thousand  streams  with  bending  shrubs  o'ergrown? 

Where  her  dark  cat'racts  tumbling  from  on  high, 

With  rainbow  arch  aspiring  to  the  sky? 

Her  tow'ring  pines  with  fadeless  wreaths  entwin'd, 

Her  waving  alders  streaming  to  the  wind? 

Nor  these  alone, — her  own, — her  fav'rite  child, 

All  fire;  all  feeling;  man  untaught  and  wild; 

Where  can  the  lost,  lone  son  of  nature  stray? 

For  art's  high  car  is  rolling  on  its  way; 

A  wand'rer  of  the  world,  he  flies  to  drown 

The  thoughts  of  days  gone  by  and  pleasures  flown, 

In  the  deep  draught,  whose  dregs  are  death  and  woe, 

With  slavery's  iron  chain  conceal'd  below. 

Once  thro'  the  tangled  wood,  with  noiseless  tread 

And  throbbing  heart,  the  lurking  warrior  sped, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  239 

Aim'd  his  sure  weapon,  won  the  prize,  and  turn'd 
While  his  high  heart  with  wild  ambition  burn'd, 
With  song  and  war-whoop  to  his  native  tree, 
There  on  its  bark  to  carve  the  victory. 
His  all  of  learning  did  that  act  comprise, 
But  still  in  nature's  volume  doubly  wise. 

The  wayward  stream  which  once  with  idle  bound, 
Whirl'd  on  resistless  in  its  foaming  round, 
Now  curb'd  by  art  flows  on,  a  wat'ry  chain 
Linking  the  snow-capp'd  mountains  to  the  main. 
Where  once  the  alder  in  luxuriance  grew, 
Or  the  tall  pine  its  tow'ring  branches  threw 
Abroad  to  Heav'n,  with  dark  and  haughty  brow, 
There  mark  the  realms  of  plenty  smiling  now; 
There  the  full  sheaf  of  Ceres  richly  glows, 
And  Plenty's  fountain  blesses  as  it  flows; 
And  man,  a  brute  when  left  to  wander  wild, 
A  reckless  creature,  nature's  lawless  child, 
What  boundless  streams  of  knowledge  rolling  now, 
From  the  full  hand  of  art  around  him  flow ! 
Improvement  strides  the  surge,  while  from  afar, 
Learning  rolls  onward  in  her  silver  car; 
Freedom  unfurls  her  banner  o'er  his  head, 
While  peace  sleeps  sweetly  on  her  native  bed. 

The  muse  arises  from  the  wildwood  glen, 
And  chants  her  sweet  and  hallow'd  song  again, 
As  in  those  Halcyon  days,  which  bards  have  sung, 
When  hope  was  blushing,  and  when  life  was  young. 


240  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Thus  shall  she  rise,  and  thus  her  sons  shall  rear 
Her  sacred  temple  here,  and  only  here, 
While  Percival,  her  lov'd  and  chosen  priest, 
For  ever  blessing,  tho'  himself  unblest, 
Shall  fan  the  fire  that  blazes  at  her  shrine, 
And  charm  the  ear  with  numbers  half  divine. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  COUSIN. 

She  gave  me  a  flow'ret, — and  oh!  it  was  sweet! 
'Twas  a  pea,  in  full  bloom,  with  its  dark  crimson 

leaf, 

And  I  said  in  my  heart,  this  shall  be  thy  retreat! 
'Tis  one   "sacred  to  Friendship" — a  stranger  to 
grief. 

In  my  bosom  I  plac'd  it,— 'tis  withered  and  gone! 

All  its  freshness,  its  beauty,  its  fragrance  has  fled! 
And  in  sorrow  I  sigh'd, — am  I  thus  left  alone? 

Is  the  gift  which  I  cherish'd  quite  faded  and  dead? 

It  has  wither'd!  but  she  who  presented  it  blooms, 

Still  fresh  and  unfading,  in  memory  here! 
And  through  life  shall  here  flourish,  'mid  danger  and 

storms, 

As  sweet  as  the  flower,  though  more  lasting  and 
fair! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  241 


MODESTY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

There  is  a  sweet,  tho'  humble  flower, 
Which  grows  in  nature's  wildest  bed; 

It  blossoms  in  the  lonely  bower, 
But  withers  'neath  the  gazer's  tread. 

'Tis  rear'd  alone,  far,  far  away 
From  the  wild  noxious  weeds  of  death, 

Around  its  brow  the  sunbeams  play, 
The  evening  dew-drop  is  its  wreath. 

'Tis  Modesty;  'tis  nature's  child; 

The  loveliest,  sweetest,  meekest  flower 
That  ever  blossom'd  in  the  wild, 

Or  trembled  'neath  the  evening  shower. 

'Tis  Modesty;  so  pure,  so  fair, 

That  woman's  witch'ries  lovelier  grow, 
When  that  sweet  flower  is  blooming  there, 

The  brightest  beauty  of  her  brow. 


16 


242  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


A  VIEW  OF  DEATH. 

When  bending  o'er  the  brink  of  life, 
My  trembling  soul  shall  stand, 

Waiting  to  pass  death's  awful  flood, 
Great  God!  at  thy  command; 

WThen  weeping  friends  surround  my  bed, 

To  close  my  sightless  eyes, 
When  shattered  by  the  weight  of  years 

This  broken  body  lies; 

When  every  long  lov'd  scene  of  life 

Stands  ready  to  depart, 
When  the  last  sigh  which  shakes  this  frame 

Shall  rend  this  bursting  heart; 

Oh  thou  great  source  of  joy  supreme, 

Whose  arm  alone  can  save, 
Dispel  the  darkness  that  surrounds 

The  entrance  to  the  grave. 

Lay  thy  supporting  gentle  hand 

Beneath  my  sinking  head, 
And  with  a  ray  of  love  divine, 

Illume  my  dying  bed. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  243 

Leaning  on  thy  dear  faithful  breast, 

I  would  resign  my  breath, 
And  in  thy  loved  embraces  lose 

The  bitterness  of  death. 


ROB  ROY'S  REPLY  TO  FRANCIS  OSBALDIS- 
TONE. 

THE  heather  I  trod  while  breathing  on  earth, 
Must  bloom  o'er  my  grave  in  the  land  of  my  birth; 
My  warm  heart  would  shrink  like  the  fern  in  the 

frost, 
If  the  tops  of  my  hills  to  my  dim  eyes  were  lost. 


244  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


TO    A   LADY 

RECOVERING  FROM  SICKNESS. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

There  is  a  charm  in  the  pallid  cheek; 
A  charm  which  the  tongue  can  never  speak, 
When  the  hand  of  sickness  has  withered  awhile, 
The  rose  which  had  bloom'd  in  the  rays  of  a  smile. 

There  is  a  charm  in  the  heavy  eye, 
When  the  tear  of  sorrow  is  passing  by, 
Like  a  summer  shower  o'er  yon  vault  of  blue, 
Or  the  violet  trembling  'neath  drops  of  dew. 

It  spreads  around  a  shade  as  light 
As  daylight  blending  with  the  night; 
Or  'tis  like  the  tints  of  an  evening  sky, 
And  soft  as  the  breathing  of  sorrow's  sigh. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  245 


THE     VISION. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

'TWAS  evening— all  was  calm  and  silent,  save 
The  low  hoarse  dashing  of  the  distant  wave; 
The  whip-poor-will  had  clos'd  his  pensive  lay, 
Which  sweetly  mourn'd  the  sun's  declining  ray; 
Tired  of  a  world  surcharged  with  pain  and  wo, 
Weary  of  heartless  forms  and  all  below, 
Broken  each  tie,  bereft  of  every  friend, 
Whose  sympathy  might  consolation  lend, 
And  musing  on  each  vain  and  earthly  toy, 
Walk'd  the  once  gay  and  still  brave  Oleroy. 
Thus  lost  in  thought,  unconsciously  he  stray'd, 
When  a  dark  forest  wild  around  him  laid. 
In  vain  he  tried  the  beaten  path  to  gain, 
He  sought  it  earnestly,  but  sought  in  vain; 
At  length  o'ercome,  he  sunk  upon  the  ground, 
Where  the  dark  ivy  twin'd  its  branches  round; 
Sudden  there  rose  upon  his  wond'ring  ear, 
Notes  which  e'en  angels  might  delighted  hear. 
Now  low  they  murmur,  now  majestic  rise, 
As  though  "  some  spirit  banished  from  the  skies" 
Had  there  repair'd  to  tune  the  mournful  lay, 
"  And  chase  the  sorrows  of  his  soul  away." 
They  ceas'd — when  lo!  a  brilliant  dazzling  light 
Illumed  the  wood  and  chas'd  the  shades  of  night; 


246  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

He  raised  his  head,  there  stood  near  Oleroy, 

The  beauteous  figure  of  a  smiling  boy; 

Across  his  shoulder  hung  an  ivory  horn, 

With  jewels  glittering  like  the  rays  of  morn; 

In  his  white  hand  he  held  the  tuneful  lyre, 

And  in  his  eyes  there  beam'd  a  heav'nly  fire; 

Approaching  Oleroy,  he  smiling  cried, 
You  hate  the  world  and  all  its  charms  deride, 
You  hate  the  world  and  all  it  doth  contain, 
Condemn  each  joy,  and  call  each  pleasure  pain; 
Then  come,  he  sweetly  cried,  come  follow  me, 
Another  world  thy  sorrowing  eyes  shall  see. 

No  sooner  said  than  swift  the  smiling  boy 
Led  from  the  bower  the  wond'ring  Oleroy. 
Beneath  a  tree  three  sylph-like  forms  recline, 
Each  form  was  beauteous,  and  each  face  benign; 
Beside  them  stood  a  chariot  dazzling  bright, 
Yok'd  with  two  beauteous  swans  of  purest  white; 
They  mount  the  chariot,  and  ascend  on  high, 
They  bend  the  lash,  on  winged  winds  they  fly, 
Above  the  spacious  globe  they  stretch  their  flight, 
That  globe  seem'd  now  but  as  a  cloud  of  night. 
Swift  towards  the  moon  the  white  swans  bend  their 

way, 

And  a  new  world  its  treasures  doth  display. 
They  halt; — before  them  rocks  and  hills  are  spread, 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  which  at  their  footsteps  fled. 
Another  moon  emits  a  softer  ray, 
And  other  moon-beams  on  the  waters  play: 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  347 

They  wander  on,  and  reach  a  darksome  cave 

Against  whose  side  loud  roars  the  dashing  wave: 

These  words  upon  its  rugged  front  appear, 

"  What  in  your  world  is  lost  is  treasured  here." 

They  enter; — round  upon  the  floor  are  strewn, 

The  ivory  sceptre,  and  the  gilttering  crown; 

Unnumbered  hopes  there  flutter'd  on  the  wing, 

There  were  the  lays  discarded  lovers  sing; 

There  fame  her  trumpet  blew,  long,  loud,  and  clear, 

Worlds  tremble  as  the  deaf'ning  notes  they  hear; 

There  brooded  riches  o'er  his  lifeless  heap, 

There  were  the  tears  which  misery's  children  weep. 

There  were  posthumous  alms,  and  misspent  time 

Lost  in  a  jingling  mass  of  foolish  rhyme. 

There  was  the  conscience  of  the  miser; — there 

The  tears  of  love, — the  pity  of -the  fair; 

There,  pointing,  cried  the  sylph-like  smiling  boy, 

There's  the  content  which  fled  you,  Oleroy! 

Regain  it  if  you  can;— then  far  away, 

And  reach  your  world  before  the  dawn  of  day. 


243  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


ON  SEEING  AT  A  CONCERT,  THE  PUBLIC 
PERFORMANCE  OF  A  FEMALE  DWARF. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Helpless,  unprotected,  weary, 

Toss'd  upon  the  world's  wide  sea, 

Borne  from  those  I  love  most  dearly, 
Say — dost  thou  not  feel  for  me? 

Who  that  hath  shrunk  'neath  nature's  frown 
Would  court  false  fortune's  fickle  smile? 

Oh,  who  would  wander  thus  alone, 
Reckless  alike  of  care  or  toil? 

Who  would,  for  fading  pleasure,  brave 
The  sea  of  troubles,  dark  and  deep? 

For  lo!  the  gems  which  deck  the  wave 
Vanish,  and  "leave  the  wretch  to  weep." 

'Twas  not  for  fortune's  smile  of  light, 

Which  beams  but  to  destroy  forever; 
Twas  not  for  pleasure's  bubbles  bright, 
Which  dazzle  still,  deluding  ever: 

Oft  have  I  falter'd  when  alone 
Before  the  crowd  I  sung  rny  lay, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  249 

But  ah,  a  father's  feeble  moan 
Rung  in  my  ears,  I  dared  not  stay. 

Oh,  I  have  borne  pride's  scornful  look, 
And  burning  taunts  from  slander's  tongue; 

Yet  more  of  malice  I  could  brook, 
E'en  though  my  heart  with  grief  was  wrung. 

Adieu;  a  long — a  last  adieu — 
Once  more  I  launch  upon  life's  sea; 

But  still  shall  memory  turn  to  you, 
For,  stranger,  you  have  felt  for  me. 


ON  SEEING  A  YOUNG  LADY  AT  HER 
DEVOTIONS. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

She  knelt,  and  her  dark  blue  eye  was  rais'd, 

A  sacred  fire  in  its  bright  beam  blaz'd, 

And  it  spread  o'er  her  cold  pale  cheek  a  light 

So  pure,  so  sacred,  so  clear  and  so  bright, 

That  Parian  marble,  tho'  glittering  fair 

'Neath  the  moon's  pale  beam,  or  the  sun's  broad  glare, 

Were  far  less  sweet,  tho'  more  dazzlingly  bright, 

Than  that  cold  cheek  array'd  in  its  halo  of  light. 


250  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Oh!  I  love  not  the  dark  rosy  hue  of  the  sky 

When  the  bright  blush  of  morn  mantles  deeply  and 

high, 

But  my  fond  soul  adores  the  pure  author  of  light, 
The  more  when  she  looks  on  the  broad  brow  of  night; 
On  myriads  of  stars  glitt'ring  far  thro'  the  sky, 
Like  the  bright  eyes  of  saints  looking  down  from  on 

high 

From  their  garden  of  Paradise,  blooming  in  Heaven, 
On  the  scene  sleeping  sweet  'neath  the  calm  smile  of 

even. 

I  love  not  the  cheek  which  speaks  slumber  unbroken, 
That  heart  hath  ne'er  sigh'd  o'er  hope's  fast  fading 

token; 

That  bosom  ne'er  throbbed  with  half  fearful  delight 
When  it  thought  on  its  home  in  the  regions  of  light, 
Or  trembled  and  wept  as  with  fancy's  dear  eye 
It  gaz'd  on  the  beautiful  gates  of  the  sky, 
And  the  angels  which  watch  at  their  portals  of  light 
All  peaceful,  all  sacred,  all  pure,  and  all  bright; 
But  I  love  that  pale  cheek  as  it  bends  in  devotion, 
Like  a  star  sinking  down  on  the  breast  of  the  ocean. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  351 


ALONZO    AND     IMANEL. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

As  he  spoke,  he  beheld  on  the  sea-beaten  strand 

A  form,  'twas  so  airy,  so  light, 
He  could  almost  have  sworn  by  the  faith  of  his  land, 
That  an  angel  was  wand'ring  'mid  rocks  and  thro' 
sand, 

'Neath  the  moon-beam  so  fitfully  bright. 

He  paus'd,  as  the  bittern  scream'd  loud  o'er  his  head, 

One  moment  he  paus'd  on  the  shore, 
To  mark  the  wild  wave  as  it  dash'd  from  its  bed, 
Tossing  high  the  white  spray  from  its  foam  spangled 
head, 

With  a  fitful  and  deafening  roar. 

He  caught  the  wild  notes  of  a  song,  on  the  wind, 

Ere  the  tempest-god  bore  them  away, 
Arid  they  told  of  a  tortured  and  desperate  mind, 
To  despair's  dark  shadows  for  ever  resign'd, 
Of  a  heart,  once  hope  lighted  and  gay. 

The  bright  moon  was  hid  in  the  breast  of  the  storm, 

And  darkness  and  terror  drew  round, 
Yet  still  he  could  mark  her  light  fanciful  form, 


252  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

As  she  roam'd  round  the  wild  rocks,  devoid  of  alarm, 
Tho'  the  fiend  of  the  whirlwind  frown'd. 

Oh  tell  me,  he  cried,  what  spirit  so  light, 

So  beautiful  e'en  in  despair, 
Is  wand'ring  alone  'mid  the  storm  of  the  night, 
When  to  guide  her  no  star  in  the  heaven  is  bright, 

No  gleam  save  the  lightning's  red  glare! 

'Tis  young  Imanel,  answered  his  guide  with  a  sigh, 

The  rich,  the  belov'd  and  the  gay, 
Who  is  doom'd  from  her  friends  and  her  country  to  fly, 
For  she  lov'd,  and  she  wedded  Alonzo  the  spy, 

Who  has  left  her  and  fled  far  away. 

Alonzo  the  spy! — and  he  darted  away 

With  the  speed  of  a  shooting  star, 
Nor  heeded  the  call  of  his  guide  to  stay, 
But  toward  the  poor  lone  one  he  bounded  away, 

She  had  fled  to  the  sea-beach  afar. 

One  glance  of  the  forked  lightning's  glare 
Play'd  bright  round  the  fair  one's  face, 
And  it  beam'd  on  Alonzo,  for  he  was  there, 
And  it  beam'd  on  his  bride,  on  his  Imanel  dear, 
Clasp'd  at  length  in  his  joyful  embrace. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  353 


TO  MARGARET'S  EYE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Oh!  I  have  seen  the  blush  of  morn, 
And  T  have  seen  the  evening  sky; 

But  ah!  they  faded  when  I  gaz'd 

On  the  bright  heaven  of  Margaret's  eye. 

I've  seen  the  Queen  of  evening  ride 
Majestic,  'mid  the  clouds  on  high; 

But  e'en  Diana  in  her  pride 

Was  dim,  near  Margaret's  brilliant  eye. 

I've  seen  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
I've  seen  the  star-bespangled  sky; 

But  oh!  I  would  the  whole  have  given 
For  one  sweet  glance  from  Margaret's  eye. 

I've  seen  the  dew  upon  the  rose, 
It  trembled  'neath  the  zephyr's  sigh; 

But  oh !  the  tear  which  nature  shed 
Was  dim  near  that  in  Margaret's  eye. 


254  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

WHOSE  MOTHER  WAS  INSANE  FROM  HER  BIRTH. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

And  thou  hast  never,  never  known 
A  mother's  love,  a  mother's  care! 

Hast  wept,  and  sigh'd,  and  smil'd  alone, 
Unblest  by  e'en  a  mother's  prayer. 

Oh,  if  sad  sorrow's  blighting  hand 

Hath  e'er  an  arrow,  it  is  this; 
To  feel  that  phrenzy's  burning  brand 

Hath  wip'd  away  a  mother's  kiss; 

To  mark  the  gulf,  the  starless  wave, 
Which  rolls  between  thee  and  her  love, 

To  feel  that  better  were  a  grave, 
A  grave  beneath — a  home  above; 

Than  thus  that  she  should  linger  on, 

In  dreamless,  sunless  solitude; 
Like  some  bright  ruin'd  shrine,  where  one 

All  loveliness  and  truth  hath  stood. 

And  he,  her  love,  her  life,  her  light, 
How  burst  the  storm  o'er  him! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  255 

Oh,  darker  than  Egyptian  night, 
'Twas  one  wild  troubled  dream! 

To  gaze  upon  that  eye,  whose  beam 

Was  love,  and  life,  and  light, 
To  mark  its  wild  and  wandering  gleam 

Which  dazzles  but  to  blight; 

To  turn  in  anguish  and  despair 
From  those  wild  notes  of  sadness, 

And  feel  that  there  was  darkness  there, 
The  midnight  mist  of  madness; 

To  start  beneath  the  thrilling  swell 

Of  notes  still  sweet,  tho7  wasted, 
To  mark  the  idol  lov'd  too  well, 

In  all  its  beauty  blasted; 

Oh!  it  were  better  far  to  kneel, 

In  darkly  brooding  anguish, 
Upon  the  graves  of  those  we  love, 

Than  thus  to  see  them  languish. 


256  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


A     SONG. 
Tune,  Mrs.  Robinson's  Farewell. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Tell  me  not  of  joys  departed, 
Or  of  childhood's  happy  hour! 

When  unconsciously  I  sported, 
Fresh  as  morning's  dewy  flower! 

Tell  me  not  of  fair  hopes  blasted, 

Or  of  unrequited  love! 
Tell  me  not  of  fortune  wasted, 

Or  the  web  which  Fate  hath  wove ! 

One  fond  wish  I  long  have  cherish'd, 
I  have  twined  it  round  my  heart! 

While  all  other  hopes  have  perish'd 
I  with  that  could  never  part. 

On  life's  troubled,  stormy  ocean 
That  bright  star  still  shone  serene! 

To  that  star,  my  heart's  devotion 
Rose,  at  morning,  and  at  e'en! 

And  the  hope  that  led  me  onward, 
Like  a  beacon  shining  bright, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  357 

Was — that  when  this  form  had  moulder'd 
I  might  wake  to  realms  of  light! 

Wake  to  bliss — that  changes  never! 

Wake  no  more  to  hope  or  fear! 
Wake  to  joys  that  bloom  for  ever! 

Wither'd  by  no  sigh,  no  tear! 


A  SONG. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Life  is  but  a  troubled  ocean, 

Hope  a  meteor,  love  a  flower 
Which  blossoms  in  the  morning  beam, 

And  withers  with  the  evening  hour. 

Ambition  is  a  dizzy  height, 

And  glory,  but  a  lightning  gleam; 

Fame  is  a  bubble,  dazzling  bright, 
Which  fairest  shines  in  fortune's  beam. 

When  clouds  and  darkness  veil  the  skies, 
And  sorrow's  blast  blows  loud  and  chill, 

Friendship  shall  like  a  rainbow  rise, 
And  softly  whisper — peace,  be  still. 


17 


253  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


TWILIGHT. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

How  sweet  the  hour  when  daylight  blends 
With  the  pensive  shadows  on  evening's  breast; 

And  dear  to  the  heart  is  the  pleasure  it  lends, 
For  'tis  like  the  departure  of  saints  to  their  rest. 

Oh,  'tis  sweet,  Saranac,  on  thy  loved  banks  to  stray, 
To  watch  the  last  day-beam  dance  light  on  thy 
wave, 

To  mark  the  white  skiff  as  it  skims  o'er  the  bay, 
Or  heedlessly  bounds  o'er  the  warrior's  grave. 

Oh,  'tis  sweet  to  a  heart  unentangled  and  light, 
When  with  hope's  brilliant  prospects  the  fancy  is 
blest, 

To  pause  'mid  its  day-dreams  so  witchingly  bright, 
And  mark  the  last  sunbeams,  while  sinking  to  rest. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  259 


FRAGMENT. 

(Written  in  her  twelfth  year.) 

With  snow-clad  top,  and  far  projecting  height, 
Yon  mist-wrapp'd  mountain  rises  on  my  sight; 
There  fancy's  pencil  draws  a  world  unseen, 
Forever  smiling,  and  for  ever  green; 
Fills  it  with  beings  pure  from  sin's  black  stain, 
Where  faith,  hope,  charity,  and  friendship  reign. 
There  forests  waving,  fill'd  with  songsters  sweet, 
The  ear  with  wild  and  warbling  music  greet; 
There  purling  rills  in  soft  meanders  glide, 
There  no  rough  cataract  whirls  its  foaming  tide; 
Life's  little  bark  there  man  in  safety  steers, 
And  passions  dark'ning  storms  he  never  fears. 


260  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  CAROLINE. 

(Written  in  her  twelfth  year.) 

Star  of  England!  Brunswick's  pride! 

Thou  hast  suffer'd,  droop'd,  and  died! 

Adversity,  with  piercing  eye, 

Bade  all  her  arrows  round  thee  fly; 

She  marked  thee  from  thy  cradle-bed, 

And  plaited  thorns  around  thy  head! — 

As  the  moon,  whom  sable  clouds 

Now  brightly  shows — now  darkly  shrouds — 

So  envy,  with  a  serpent's  eye, 

And  slander's  tongue  of  blackest  dye, 

On  thy  pure  name  aspersions  cast, 

And  triumph'd  o'er  thy  fame  at  last! 

But  each  dark  tale  of  guilt  and  shame 

Shall  darker  fly  to  whence  it  came! 

A  stranger  in  a  foreign  land, 

Oppress'd  beneath  a  tyrant's  hand, 

She  drank  the  bitter  cup  of  wo, 

And  read  Fate's  black'ning  volume  through! 

The  last,  the  bitterest'drop  was  drank, 

The  volume  closed — and  all  was  blank! 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


ON  THE 

DEATH  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  ***** 

I  saw  her  when  life's  tide  was  high, 

When  youth  was  hov'ririg  o'er  her  brow, 

When  joy  was  dancing  in  her  eye, 

And  her  cheek  blush'd  hope's  crimson  glow. 

I  saw  her  'mid  a  fairy  throng, 

She  seem'd  the  gayest  of  the  gay; 
I  saw  her  lightly  glide  along, 

'Neath  beauty's  smile,  and  pleasure's  lay. 

I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  robe,  • 

The  blush  of  joy  was  mounting  high; 

I  mark'd  her  bosom's  heaving  throb, 
I  mark'd  her  dark  and  downcast  eye. 

I  saw  her  when  a  mother's  love, 
Ask'd  at  her  hand  a  mother's  care; 

She  look'd  an  angel  from  above, 
Hov'ring  round  a  cherub  fair. 

I  saw  her  not  till  cold  and  pale, 
She  slumber'd  on  death's  icy  arm; 

The  rose  had  faded  on  her  cheek, 
Her  lip  had  lost  its  power  to  charm. 


262  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

That  eye  was  dim  which  brightly  shone ; 

That  brow  was  cold,  that  heart  was  still; 
The  witch'ries  of  that  form  had  flown; 

The  lifeless  clay  had  ceas'd  to  feel. 

I  saw  her  wedded  to  the  grave; 

Her  bridal  robes  were  weeds  of  death; 
And  o'er  her  pale,  cold  brow,  was  hung 

The  damp  sepulchral  icy  wreath. 


THE  WHITE  MAID  OF  THE  ROCK. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

•   ' 

Loud  'gainst  the  rocks  the  wild  spray  is  dashing, 
Its  snowy  white  foam  o'er  the  waves  rudely  splash 
ing; 

The  woods  echo  round  to  the  bittern's  shrill  scream, 
As  he  dips  his  black  wing  in  the  wave  of  the  stream; 
Now  mournful  and  sad  the  low  murmuring  breeze 
Sighs  lonely  and  dismal  through  hollow  oak  trees. 
The  owl  loudly  hoots,  while  his  lonely  abode 
Serves  to  shelter  the  snake  and  the  poisonous  toad; 
Lo !  the  black  thunder  cloud  is  spread  over  the  skies, 
And  the  swift-winged  lightning  at  intervals  flies. 
The  streamlet  looks  dark,  and  the  spray  wilder  breaks, 
And  the  alder  leaf  dank,  with  its  silver  drops  shakes; 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

This  dell  and  these  rocks,  this  lone  alder  and  stream, 
With  the  dew-drops  which  dance  in  the  moon's  silver 

beam, 

Are  sacred  to  beings  etherial  and  light, 
Who  hold  their  dark  orgies  alone  and  at  night. 
Wild,  and  more  wild,  dashed  the  waves  of  the  stream, 
The  White  Maid  of  the  rock  gave  a  shrill  piercing 

scream; 
Down  headlong  she  plunged  'neath  the  dark  rolling 

wave, 

And  rising,  thus  chanted  a  dirge  to  the  brave. 
"  The  raven  croaks  loud  from  her  nest  in  the  rock, 
The  night-owl's  shrill  hooting  resounds  from  the  oak; 
Behold  the  retreat  where  brave  Avenel  is  laid, 
Uncoffin'd,  except  by  his  own  Scottish  plaid! 
Long  since  has  my  girdle  diminished  to  naught, 
And  the  great  house  of  Avenel  low  has  been  brought; 
The  star  now  burns  dimly  which  once  brightly  shone, 
And  proud  Avenel's  glory  for  ever  has  flown. 
As  I  sail'd  and  my  white  garments  caught  in  the 

brake, 
'Neath  the  oak,  whose  huge  branches  extend  o'er  the 

lake, 

1  Wo  to  thee!  wo  to  thee!  Maid  of  the  Rock/ 
Cried  the  night-raven  who  builds  in  the  oak; 
'Wo  to  thee!  guardian  spirit  of  Avenel! 
Where  are  thy  holly-bush,  streamlet  and  dell? 
No  longer  thou  sitiest  to  watch  and  to  weep, 
Near  the  abbey's  lone  walls,  and  its  turrets  so  steep! 
Wo  to  thee!— wo  to  thee!  Maid  of  the  Rock/ 
Cried  the  night-raven  who  builds  in  the  oak! 


264  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Then  farewell,  great  Av'nel,  thy  proud  race  is  run! 
The  girdle  has  vanished — my  task  is  now  done." 
Then  her  long  flowing  tresses  around  her  she  drew, 
And  her  form  'nealh  the  wave  of  the  dark  streamlet 
threw. 


THE  WEE  FLOWER  OF  THE  HEATHER. 

("Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Thou  pretty  wee  flower,  humble  thing, 

Thou  brightest  jewel  of  the  heath, 
-  Which  waves  at  zephyr's  lightest  wing, 
And  trembles  at  the  softest  breath; 

Thou  lovely  bud  of  Scotia's  land, 
Thou  pretty  fragrant  burnie  gem, 

By  whisp'ring  breezes  thou  art  fann'd, 
And  greenest  leaves  entwine  thy  stem. 

No  raging  tempest  beats  thee  down, 

Or  finds  thee  in  thy  safe  retreat; 
By  no  rough  win'try  winds  thou'rt  blown, 

Safe  seated  at  the  dark  rock's  feet. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  265 


TO  MY  DEAR  MOTHER  IN  SICKNESS. 

Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow, 

Mourn  not  a  brighter,  happier  day, 
But  touch  the  chord,  and  life's  wild  billow 

Will  shrinking  foam  its  shame  away. 

Then  strike  the  chord  and  raise  the  strain 
Which  brightens  that  dark  clouded  brow; 

Oh!  beam  one  sunshine  smile  again, 
And  I'll  forgive  thy  sadness  now. 

Tho'  darkness,  gloom,  and  doubt  surround  thee, 
Thy  bark,  tho'  frail,  shall  safely  ride; 

The  storm  and  whirlwind  may  rage  round  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  all  their  wrath  abide. 

Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow 
Which  weeps  o'er  every  passing  wave; 

Tho'  life  is  but  a  restless  pillow, 

There's  calm  and  peace  beyond  the  grave. 


266  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


AN    ACROSTIC. 

(Written  in  her  eleventh  year.) 
THE  MOON. 

Lo!  yonder  rides  the  empress  of  the  night! 
Unveil'd  she  casts  around  her  silver  light; 
Cease  not,  fair  orb,  thy  slow  majestic  march, 
Resume  again  thy  seat  in  yon  blue  arch. 
E'en  now,  as  weary  of  the  tedious  way, 
Thy  head  on  ocean's  bosom  thou  dost  lay; 
In  his  blue  waves  thou  hid'st  thy  shining  face, 
And  gloomy  darkness  takes  its  vacant  place. 

THE  SUN. 

[IN  CONTINUATION.] 

Darting  his  rays  the  sun  now  glorious  rides, 
And  from  his  path  fell  darkness  quick  divides; 
Vapour  dissolves  and  shrinks  at  his  approach, 
It  dares  not  on  his  blazing  path  encroach; 
Down  droops  the  flow'ret, — and  his  burning  ray 
Scorches  the  workmen  o'er  the  new-mown  hay. 
Oh!  lamp  of  Heav'n,  pursue  thy  glorious  course, 
Nor  till  gray  twilight,  aught  abate  thy  force. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  267 


HABAKKUK    III,  6. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

When  Cushan  was  mourning  in  solitude  drear, 
When  the  curtains  of  Midian  trembled  with  fear, 
On  the  wings  of  salvation  thy  chariot  did  fly, 
Thou  didst  stride  the  wide  whirlwind  and  come  from 
on  high. 

Earth  shook,  and  before  thee  the  mountains  did  bow; 
The  voice  of  the  deep  thunder'd  loud  from  below; 
Thy  arrows  glanc'd  bright  as  they  shot  thro'  the  air, 
And  far  gleam'd  the  light  of  thy  glittering  spear; 
The  bright  orb  of  day  paus'd  in  wonder  on  high, 
And  the  lamp  of  the  night  stood  still  in  the  sky. 


268  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


ON  READING  A  FRAGMENT  CALLED  THE 
FLOWER  OF  THE  FOREST. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Sing  on,  sweetest  songster  the  woodland  can  boast; 
Sing  on,  for  it  charms,  tho'  it  sorrows  my  breast; 
The  strains,  tho'  so  mournful,  shall  never  be  lost 
Till  this  throbbing  bosom  has  murmur'd  to  rest. 

The  sweet  Flower  of  the  Forest  on  memory's  page 
Shall  bloom  undecaying  while  life  lingers  near, 
Unhurt  by  the  storms  which  around  it  shall  rage, 
By  sorrow's  sigh  fann'd,  and  bedew'd  by  a  tear. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  269 


Z  ANTE. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

She  stood  alone,  'twas  in  that  hour  of  thought, 
When  days  gone  by,  with  fading  fancies  fraught 
Steal  o'er  the  soul,  and  bear  it  back  awhile, 
Too  sad,  too  heavy,  or  to  weep  or  smile 
O'er  all  life's  sad  variety  of  wo, 
Which  fades  the  cheek,  and  stamps  upon  the  brow 
The  deep  dark  traces  of  its  passage  there, 
In  all  the  clouded  majesty  of  care. 
That  hour  was  twilight;  and  the  shade  of  night, 
Which  shuts  the  world  and  wickedness  from  sight, 
Was  walking  o'er  the  waters,  while  its  train 
Of  glitt'ring  millions  danced  along  the  main, 
And  Zante,  that  fairy  island  fading  fast, 
Seem'd  first  but  faintly  shadow'd,  till  at  last 
Tower,  minaret,  and  turret,  dimm'd  by  night, 
Shone  darkly  grand,  beneath  Heav'ns  silvery  light. 

And  where  was  she,  the  lone  one,  for  the  sky 
Had  blush'd,  then  faded  slowly  to  her  eye — 
Had  deepen'd  into  darkness,  till  at  last 
Night's  deep,  broad  pinion  had  before  her  pass'd; 
And  still  she  linger'd  there,  as  noting  not 
The  lonely  breathlessness  of  that  sad  spot; 
As  heeding  not  the  hour,  the  dreary  sky, 
Or  aught  that  lay  beneath  her  moveless  eye. 


270  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

She  was  a  being  form'd  to  love,  and  blest 
With  lavish  Nature's  richest  loveliness. 
Oh!  I  have  often  seen,  in  fancy's  eye, 
Beings  too  bright  for  dull  mortality. 
I've  seen  them  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
I've  faintly  seen  them,  when  enough  of  light 
And  dim  distinctness  gave  them  to  my  gaze, 
As  forms  of  other  worlds,  or  brighter  days. 

Such  was  lanthe,  though  perhaps  less  bright, 
Less  clearly  bright,  for  mystery  and  night 
Hung  o'er  her — she  e'en  lovelier  seem'd, 
More  calm,  more  happy,  when  dim  twilight  gleam'd 
Athwart  the  wave,  than  when  the  rude  bright  sun, 
As  though  in  mock'ry,  o'er  her  sad  brow  shone. 
There  was  a  temple,  which  had  stood,  where  then 
lanthe  stood,  and  old  and  learned  men 
Mus'd  o'er  its  ruins,  marking  here  and  there 
Some  porch,  some  altar,  or  some  fountain,  where 
In  other  days,  the  towers  of  faith  were  raised, 
Where  victims  bled,  or  sacred  censers  blazed; 
There  stood  lanthe,  leaning  on  a  shrine 
Which  rose  half  mournfully,  from  'neath  the  vine, 
Which  as  in  seeming  mock'ry  had  o'ergrown 
And  twin'd  its  tendrils  round  its  breast  of  stone; 
Around  the  ruin'd  columns,  shaft  and  step, 
In  undistinguish'd  masses  mould'ring  slept, 
And  little  dreaming  of  the  years  gone  by, 
E'er  tyrant  time  had  hurl'd  them  from  on  high. 
The  moon  emerging  from  the  cloud  more  bright 
The  marble  surface  glitter'd  in  its  light; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  371 

lanthe  mark'd  it — tears  will  sometimes  steal, 

From  hearts  which  have  perchance  long  ceas'd  to 

feel- 
She  wept,  and  whether  that  cold  trembling  gleam 
Which  shone  upon  the  column,  where  the  beam 
Fell  on  its  brow,  brought  to  her  bleeding  breast 
Those  gusts  of  sorrow,  grief,  despair,  distress, 
Or  what  it  was  I  know  not — but  she  wept 
O'er  the  wide  ruin  which  around  her  slept; 

Then  as  if  scorning        *        *        *         * 

******* 

[Unfinished.'] 


THE    YELLOW   FEVER, 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

The  sky  is  pure,  the  clouds  are  light, 
The  moonbeams  glitter  cold  and  bright; 
O'er  the  wide  landscape  breathes  no  sigh; 
The  sea  reflects  the  star-gemm'd  sky, 
And  every  beam  of  Heav'ns  broad  brow 
Glows  brightly  on  the  world  below. 
But  ah!  the  wing  of  death  is  spread; 
I  hear  the  midnight  murd'rers  tread; — 
I  hear  the  Plague  that  walks  at  night, 
I  mark  its  pestilential  blight; 
I  feel  its  hot  and  with'ring  breath, 
It  is  the  messenger  of  death! — 


272  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  can  a  scene  so  pure  and  fair 
Slumber  beneath  a  baleful  air? 
And  can  the  stealing  form  of  death 
Here  wither  with  its  blighting  breath? 
Yes;  and  the  slumb'rer  feels  its  power 
At  midnight's  dark  and  silent  hour; 
He  feels  the  wild  fire  thro'  his  brain; 
He  wakes;  his  frame  is  rack'd  with  pain; 
His  eye  half  closed;  his  lip  is  dark; 
The  sword  of  death  hath  done  his  work; 
That  sallow  cheek,  that  fever'd  lip, 
That  eye  which  burns  but  cannot  sleep, 
That  black  parch'd  tongue,  that  raging  brain, 
All  mark  the  monarch's  baleful  reign! 

Oh!  for  one  pure,  one  balmy  breath, 
To  cool  the  suff'rer's  brow  in  death; 
Oh!  for  one  wand'ring  breeze  of  Heav'n; 
Oh  that  one  moment's  rest  were  giv'n! 
'Tis  past; — and  hush'd  the  victim's  prayer; 
The  spirit  was — but  is  not  there! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  273 


KINDAR    BURIAL    SERVICE, 

VERSIFIED. 

We  commend  our  brother  to  thee,  oh  earth! 
To  thee  he  returns,  from  thee  was  his  birth! 
Of  thee  was  he  form'd,  he  was  nourished  by  thee; 
Take  the  body,  oh  earth!  the  spirit  is  free. 

Oh  air!  he  once  breathed  thee,  thro'  thee  he  survived 
And  in  thee,  and  with  thee,  his  pure  spirit  liv'd; 
That  spirit  hath  fled,  and  we  yield  him  to  thee; 
His  ashes  be  spread,  like  his  soul,  far  and  free. 

Oh  fire!  we  commit  his  dear  reliques  to  thee, 
Thou  emblem  of  purity,  spotless  and  free; 
May  his  soul,  like  thy  flames,  bright  and  burning  arise, 
To  its  mansion  of  bliss,  in  the  star-spangled  skies. 

Oh  water!  receive  him;  without  thy  kind  aid 

He  had  parch'd  'neath  the  sunbeams  or  mourn'd  in 

the  shade; 

Then  take  of  his  body  the  share  which  is  thine, 
For  the  spirit  hath  fled  from  its  mouldering  shrine. 


18 


274  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE  GRAVE. 

There  is  a  spot  so  still  and  dreary, 

It  is  a  pillow  to  the  weary; 

It  is  so  solemn  and  so  lone, 

That  grief  forgets  to  heave  a  groan. 

There  life's  storms  can  enter  never; 
There  'tis  dark  and  lonely  ever; 
The  mourner  there  shall  seek  repose, 
And  there  the  wanderer's  journey  close. 


RUINS  OF  PALMYRA. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Palmyra,  where  art  thou,  all  dreary  and  lone? 

The  breath  of  thy  fame,  like  the  night-wind,  hath 

flown; 

O'er  thy  temples,  thy  minarets,  towers  and  halls, 
The  dark  veil  of  oblivion  silently  falls. 

The  sands  of  the  desert  sweep  by  thee  in  pride, 
They  curl  round  thy  brow,  like  the  foam  of  the  tide, 
And  soon  like  the  mountain  stream's  wild-rolling  wave, 
Will  rush  o'er,  and  wrap  thee  at  once  in  thy  grave. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  275 

Oh,  where  are  the  footsteps  which  once  gaily  flew 
O'er  pavements,  where  now  weep  the  foxglove  and 

yew? 

Oh  where  are  the  voices  which  once  gaily  sung, 
While  the  lofty  brow'd  domes  with  melody  rung? 

They  are  silent; — and  naught  breaks  the  chaos  of 

death; 

Not  a  being  now  treads  o'er  the  ivy's  dull  wreath, 
Save  the  raging  hyena,  whose  terrible  cry 
Echoes  loud  thro'  the  halls  and  the  palaces  high. 

Thou  art  fallen,  Palmyra!  and  never  to  rise, 

Thou  "queen  of  the  east,  thou  bright  child  of  the 

skies!" 

Thou  art  lonely;  the  desert  around  thee  is  wide, 
Then  haste  to  its  arms,  nor  remember  thy  pride. 

Thou'rt  forgotten,  Palmyra!  return  thee  to  earth; 
And  great  be  thy  fall,  as  was  stately  thy  birth; 
With  grandeur  then  bow  'neath  the  pinion  of  time, 
And  sink,  not  in  splendour,  but  sadly  sublime. 


276  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE  WIDE  WORLD  IS  DREAR. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Oh  say  not  the  wide  world  is  lonely  and  dreary! 

Oh  say  not  that  life  is  a  wilderness  waste! 
There's  ever  some  comfort  in  store  for  the  weary, 

And  there's  ever  some  hope  for  the  sorrowful  breast. 

There  are  often  sweet  dreams  which  will  steal  o'er 

the  soul, 

Beguiling  the  mourner  to  smile  through  a  tear, 
That  when  waking  the  dew-drops  of  mem'ry  may 

fall, 
And  blot  out  for  ever,  the  wide  world  is  drear. 

There  is  hope  for  the  lost,  for  the  lone  one's  relief, 
Which  will  beam  o'er  his  pathway  of  danger  arid 

fear; 
There  is  pleasure's  wild  throb,  and  the  calm  "joy  of 

grief," 
Oh  then  say  not  the  wide  world  is  lonely  and  drear! 

There  are  fears  that  are  anxious,  yet  sweet  to  the 
breast, 

Some  feelings,  which  language  ne'er  told  to  the  ear, 
Which  return  on  the  heart,  and  there  lingering  rest, 

Soft  whispering,  this  world  is  not  lonely  and  drear. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  277 

'Tis  true,  that  the  dreams  of  the  evening  will  fade, 
When  reason's  broad  sunbeam  shines  calmly  and 
clear; 

Still  fancy,  sweet  fancy,  will  smile  o'er  the  shade, 
And  say  that  the  world  is  not  lonely  and  drear. 

Oh  then  mourn  not  that  life  is  a  wilderness  waste! 

That  each  hope  is  illusive,  each  prospect  is  drear, 
But  remember  that  man,  undeserving,  is  blest, 

And  rewarded  with  smiles  for  the  fall  of  a  tear. 


FAREWELL  TO  MISS  E.  B. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Farewell,  and  whenever  calm  solitude's  hour, 
Shall  silently  spread  its  broad  wings  o'er  your  bower, 
Oh!  then  gaze  on  yon  planet,  yon  watch-fire  divine, 
And  believe  that   my  soul  is  there   mingling  with 
thine. 

When  the  dark  brow  of  evening  is  beaming  with 

stars, 

And  yon  crest  of  light  clouds  is  the  turban  she  wears, 
When  she  walks  forth  in  grandeur,  the  queen  of  the 

night, 
Oh!  then  think  that  my  spirit  looks  on  with  delight. 


278  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

O'er  the  ocean  of  life  our  frail  vessels  are  bounding, 
And  danger  and  death  our  dark  pathway  surrounding; 
Destruction's  bright  meteors  are  dancing  before, 
And  behind  us  the  winds  of  adversity  roar. 

Oh!  then  come,  let  us  light  friendship's  lamp  on  the 

wave, 

If  we're  lost,  it  will  shed  its  pure  light  o'er  the  grave, 
Or  'twill  guide  to  the  haven  of  Heaven  at  last, 
And  beam  on  when  the  voice  of  the  trumpet  hath 

past. 


THE  ARMY  OF   ISRAEL  AT  THE  FOOT  OF 
MOUNT   SINAI. 

Their  spears  glittered  bright  in  the  beams  of  the  sun; 
Their  banners  waved  far,  and   their  high  helmets 

shone; 
And  their  dark  plumes  were  toss'd  on  the  breast  of 

the  breeze, 
But  the  war-trumpet  slumbered  the  slumber  of  peace. 

He  came  in  his  glory,  he  came  in  his  might, 
His  chariot  the  cloud,  and  his  sceptre  the  light; 
The  sound  of  his  coming  was  heard  from  afar, 
Like  the  roar  of  a  nation  when  rushing  to  war. 


-       POETICAL  REMAINS.  379 

'Twas  the  great  God  of  Israel,  riding  on  high, 
Whose  footstool  is  earth,  and  whose  throne  is  the  sky; 
He  stood  in  his  glory,  unseen  and  alone, 
And  with  letters  of  fire  traced  the  tablets  of  stone. 

The  eagle  may  soar  to  the  sun  in  his  might, 
And  the  eye  of  the  warrior  flash  fierce  in  the  fight; 
But  say,  who  may  look  upon  God  the  Most  High? 
Oh,  Israel !  turn  back  from  his  glory,  or  die. 

The  sun  in  its  splendour,  the  fire  in  its  might, 
Which  devours  and  withers,  and  wastes  from  the 

sight, 

Is  dim  to  the  glory  which  beams  from  his  eye — 
Then,  Israel,  turn  back— Oh!  return,  or  ye  die. 


280  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  GETHSEMANE. 

Gethsemane!  there's  holy  blood 
Upon  thy  green  and  waving  brow; 

Gethsemane!  a  God  hath  stood, 
And  o'er  thy  branches  bended  low ! 

There,  drops  of  agony  have  hung 
Mingled  with  blood  upon  his  brow; 

For  sin  his  bosom  there  was  wrung, 
And  there  it  bled  for  human  wo. 

There,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  night, 
Alone  he  watched,  alone  he  prayed; 

Didst  thou  not  tremble  at  the  sight? 
A  God  reviled! — a  God  betrayed! 

Gethsemane!  so  dark  a  scene 
Ne'er  blotted  the  wide  book  of  time! 

Oblivion's  veil  can  never  screen 
So  dark  a  deed,  so  black  a  crime! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  331 


THE  TEMPEST  GOD. 

Hark!  'tis  the  wheels  of  his  wide  rolling  car, 
They  traverse  the  heavens  and  come  from  afar; 
Sublime  and  majestic  the  dark  cloud  he  rides, 
The  wing  of  the  whirlwind  he  fearlessly  strides, 
The  glance  of  his  eye  is  the  lightning's  broad  flame 
And  the  caverns  re-echo  his  terrible  name. 

In  the  folds  of  his  pinions,  the  wild  whirlwinds  sleep, 
At  his  bidding  they  rush  o'er  the  foam  of  the  deep, 
He  speaks,  and  in  whispers  they  murmur  to  rest, 
And  calmly  they  sink  on  the  folds  of  his  breast; 
His  seat  is  the  mountain  top's  loftiest  height; 
He  reigns  there  in  darkness,  the  king  of  the  night. 


282  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


TO  A  DEPARTING  FRIEND. 

Farewell,  and  may  some  angel  guide, 
Some  viewless  spirit  hover  o'er  thee; 

Who,  let  or  weal  or  wo  betide, 

Will  still  unchanging  move  before  thee. 

A  hallow'd  light  shall  burn  at  night, 
When  sorrow's  wave  rolls  drearily, 

And  o'er  thy  way  a  cloud  by  day 
Shall  cast  its  shadow  cheerily. 

Thy  bark  of  pleasure  o'er  life's  smooth  sea 

Shall  gallantly  glide  along; 
Pray'rs  and  blessings  thy  breezes  shall  be, 

And  hope  be  thy  parting  song. 

Go  then;  I  have  given  the  spirits  charge 
To  watch  o'er  thee  now  and  for  ever; 

To  smooth  life's  waters,  and  guide  thy  barge 
Where  tempest  shall  toss  it  never. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  •     283 


TO    MAMMA. 

Thy  love  inspires  the  Story  Teller's  tongue. 
To  tales  of  hearts  with  disappointment  wrung, 
Thy  love  inspires; — fresh  flows  the  copious  stream, 
And  what's  not  true,  let  fruitful  fancy  dream. 

THE  STORV  TELLER. 


THE  PARTING  OF  DECOURCY  AND 
WILHELMINE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

1.  Lo!  enthron'd  on  golden  clouds 

Sinks  the  monarch  of  the  day; 
Now  yon  hill  his  glory  shrouds, 
And  his  brilliance  fades  away. 

2.  But  as  it  fled,  one  ling'ring  beam 

Play-'d  o'er  yon  spire,  which  points  on  high; 
It  cast  one  bright,  one  transient  gleam, 
Then  hastened  from  the  deep'ning  sky. 

3.  Lo!  the  red  tipp'd  clouds  remain 

But  to  tell  of  glories  past; 
Mark  them  gathering  o'er  the  plain, 
Mark  them  fade  away  at  last. 


284  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

4.  The  lake  is  calm,  the  breeze  is  still, 

Nor  dares  to  whisper  o'er  a  leaf; 
And  nothing  save  the  raurm'ring  rill 
Can  give  the  vacant  ear  relief. 

5.  Around  yon  hawthorn  in  the  vale 

White  garments  float  like  evening  mist; 
'Tis  Wilhelmine,  and  cold  and  pale 
A  simple  marble  stone  she  kiss'd. 

6.  She  knelt  her  by  a  lowly  tomb, 

And  wreath'd  its  urn  anew  with  flowers; 
She  taught  the  white  rose  there  to  bloom, 
And  water'd  it  with  sorrow's  showers. 

7.  Like  raven's  wing,  her  glossy  hair 

In  ringlets  floated  on  the  gale, 
Or  hung  upon  a  brow  as  fair 
As  snow  curl  crested  in  the  vale. 

8.  And  her  dark  eye  which  rolls  so  wild, 

Once  brightly  sparkled  with  hope's  light, 
For  Wilhelmine  was  pleasure's  child, 
When  fortune's  smiles  shone  sweetly  bright. 


9.  Decourcy  lov'd — the  morn  was  clear, 

And  fancy  promis'd  bliss; 
For  now  the  happy  hour  was  near, 
Which  made  the  maiden  his. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  285 

10.  And  Wilhelmine  sat  smiling  sweet 

Beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
Her  nimble  foot  was  quick  to  meet, 
Her  glancing  eye  to  see. 

11.  Decourcy  came  upon  his  steed, 

His  brow  and  cheek  were  pale; 
Speak — speak,  Decourcy,  cried  the  maid, 
'Tis  sure  a  dreadful  tale. 

12.  My  love,  my  Wilhelmine,  cried  he, 

Be  calm  and  fear  thee  not; 
In  battle  I  will  think  on  thee, 
And  oh,  forget  me  not. 

13.  Adieu!  he  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast, 

And  kiss'd  the  trickling  tear 
Which  'neath  her  half  clos'd  eyelids  prest, 
And  ling'ring  glist'ned  there. 

14.  He  gazed  upon  that  death-like  face, 

So  beautiful  before; 
He  gazed  upon  that  shrine  of  grace, 
And  dared  to  gaze  no  more. 

15.  He  trembled,  press'd  his  burning  brow, 

And  clos'd  his  aching  eyes; 
His  limbs  refuse  their  office  now, 
The  maid  before  him  lies. 

1 6.  But  hark!  the  trumpet's  warlike  sound 

Echoes  from  hill  to  vale; 


286  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

He  caught  the  maiden  from  the  ground 
And  kiss'd  her  forehead  pale. 

17.  Why  should  Decourcy  linger  there 

When  the  bugle  bids  him  speed? 
One  long  last  look  of  calm  despair, 
And  he  springs  upon  his  steed; 

18.  He  strikes  the  sting  of  his  bloody  spur 

In  his  foaming  courser's  side, 
And  he  gallops  on  where  the  wave  of  war 
Rolls  on  with  its  bursting  tide. 

19.  Whose  was  the  sword  that  flashed  so  bright, 

Like  the  flaming  brand  of  heaven? 
And  whose  the  plume,  that  from  morn  till  night 
Was  a  star  to  the  hopeless  given? 

20.  'Twas  thine,  Decourcy!  that  terrible  sword 

Hath  finished  its  work  of  death, 
And  the  hand  which  raised  it  on  high  is  lowered 
To  the  damp  green  earth  beneath. 

21.  The  sun  went  down,  and  its  parting  ray 

Smiled  sorrow  across  the  earth, 
The  light  breeze  moaned — then  died  away, 
And  the  stars  rose  up  in  mirth. 

22.  And  the  timid  moon  looked  down  with  a  smile 

On  the  blood-stained  battle  ground, 
And  the  groans  of  the  wounded  rose  up  the  while, 
With  a  sad  heart-rending  sound, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  281 

23.  While  the  spectre-form  of  some  grief-worn  man 

Steals  slowly  and  silently  by, 
Each  corpse  to  note — each  face  to  scan, 
For  his  friend  on  that  field  doth  lie. 

24.  But  whose  is  the  figure  dimly  seen 

By  the  trembling  moon-beam's  light? 
'Tis  the  form  of  the  weeping  Welhelmine, 
And  she  kneels  by  the  slaughtered  knight. 

25.  Weep  not  for  the  dead,  for  he  died  'mid  the  din, 

And  the  rapturous  shouts  of  strife, 
And  the  bright  sword  hath  ushered  his  soul  within 
The  portals  of  future  life. 

26.  Weep  not  for  the  dead!  who  would  not  die 

As  that  gallant  soldier  died? 
With  a  field  of  glory  whereon  to  lie, 
And  his  foeman  dead  beside. 

27.  A  year  passed  by,  and  a  simple  tomb 

Rose  up  'neath  a  willow  tree, 
'Twas  decked  with  flowers  in  vernal  bloom 
As  fresh  as  flowers  could  be; 

28.  And  oft  as  the  twilight's  dusky  gleam 

O'er  the  scene  was  gently  stealing, 
The  form  of  the  sorrowful  maid  was  seen 
By  the  grave  of  her  lover  kneeling. 

29.  But  wild  is  the  glance  of  her  dove-like  eye, 

And  her  cheek,  oh  how  pale  and  fair! 


288  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  the  mingled  smile  and  the  deep  drawn  sigh, 
Show  that  reason's  no  longer  there. 

30.  Another  year  passed,  and  another  grave 

'Neath  the  willow  tree  is  seen; 
By  the  side  of  her  lover,  Decourcy  the  brave, 
Lay  the  corpse  of  Wilhelmine. 


LOVE,  JOY,  AND  PLEASURE. 


AN  ALLEGORY. 


(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

The  night  was  calm,  the  sky  serene, 

The  sea  a  mirror  display'd, 
On  its  bosom  the  twinkling  stars  were  seen, 
The  moon-crested  waves  were  dancing  between, 

And  smiling  through  evening's  shade. 

On  that  placid  sea  Pleasure's  bark  was  riding, 
Love  and  Joy  were  its  guides  through  the  deep, 

And  their  hearts  beat  high,  while  on  fortune  con 
fiding, 

They  smil'd  at  the  forms  that  were  gloomily  striding, 
O'er  the  brow  of  the  wave-wash'd  steep. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  239 

Those  forms  were  Malice,  and  Scorn,  and  Hate, 

And  they  flitted  around  so  dark, 
That  they  seem'd  like  the  gloomy  sisters  of  Fate, 
Intent  on  some  dreary,  some  deadly  debate, 

To  ruin  the  beautiful  bark. 

But  the  eye  of  Joy  was  raised  on  high, 

She  gaz'd  at  the  moon's  pale  lamp, 
The  tear  of  Pleasure  shone  bright  in  her  eye, 
And  she  saw  riot  the  clouds  which  were  passing  by, 

Death's  messengers  dark  and  damp. 

And  Pleasure  was  gazing  with  childish  glee 

At  the  beacon's  trembling  gleam, 
Or  watching  the  shade  of  her  wings  in  the  sea, 
With  their  colours  as  varied  and  fickle  as  she, 

As  fleeting  as  Folly's  dream. 

And  Love  was  tipping  his  feath'ry  darts, 

And  feeding  his  flaming  torch, 
He  was  tinging  his  wings  with  the  blood  of  hearts, 
He    was  chanting  low  numbers,  and    smelling    by 
starts 

At  the  flowers  'round  Hymen's  porch. 

Meanwhile  the  clouds  were  gath'ring  drear, 

They  hung  'round  the  weeping  moon, 
And  still  the  mariners  dream'd  not  of  fear, 
Still  in  Joy's  bright  eye  beam'd  the  brilliant  tear, 

Which  sorrow  would  claim  too  soon.  ;y.. 

,^ss* 
19 


290  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  voice  of  the  tempest-god  rolled  around, 

The  bark  towards  heaven  was  toss'd; 
Then,  then  the  fond  dreamers  awoke  at  the  sound, 
And  Pleasure,  the  helmsman,  in  agony  found, 
That  the  light-house  fire  was  lost. 

Loud  and  more  loud  the  billows  roar, 

The  ocean  no  more  is  gay, 

Love  dreams  of  his  pinions  and  arrows  no  more, 
Joy  mourns  the  hour  that  she  left  the  shore, 

And  Pleasure's  bright  wings  fade  away. 

Then  Malice  sent  forth  a  shadowy  bark. 

Which,  bounding  o'er  the  wave, 
Came  like  a  meteor's  brilliant  spark, 
A  star  of  light  'mid  the  tempest  dark, 

A  beacon  of  hope  from  the  grave. 

Joy  onward  rush'd  to  the  airy  skiff 

Which  near  them  gaily  drew, 
But  ah!  she  sank  to  the  arms  of  Grief, 
For  the  bark,  which  promis'd  them  sure  relief 

Away  like  light'ning  flew. 

Then  the  smile  of  Scorn  and  Malice  gleam'd 

Across  the  billow's  foam, 
And  long  and  loud  fell  Hatred  scream'd 
With  fiend-like  joy,  as  the  lightning  stream'd 

Around  their  forms  of  gloom. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  291 

On,  on,  they  drifted  before  the  gale; 

Again  the  signal  rose; 
Joy  and  Pleasure  the  beacon  hail, 
Love's  ashy  cheek  becomes  less  pale 

As  clearer  and  brighter  it  glows. 

Twas  Hope  who  fired  the  beacon  high, 

And  she  came  with  her  anchor  of  rest, 
And  Faith,  who  raised  towards  heaven  her  eye, 
Spoke  peace  to  the  storm  of  the  troubled  sky, 
And  calm  to  the  weary  breast. 

And  Charity  came  with  her  robe  of  light, 

And  she  led  the  wanderers  home, 
She  warmed  them  and  wept  o'er  the  woes  of  the 

night, 
And  she  welcomed  them  in  with  a  smile  so  bright, 

That  Pleasure  forgot  to  roam. 

And  she  led  them  to  Religion's  shrine, 

Where  Hope  was  humbly  kneeling, 
And  there  the  tears  of  Joy  did  shine 
With  a  light  more  dazzling,  more  divine, 

They  were  mingled  with  tears  of  feeling. 

There  Love's  wild  wings  shone  calmly  bright, 

As  over  the  altar  he  waved  them; 
There  Pleasure  folded  her  pinions  light, 
And  fondly  gazed  with  a  sacred  delight 

On  the  scroll  which  Charity  gave  them. 


292  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


MY  LAST  FAREWELL  TO  MY  HARP. 

And  must  we  part?  yes,  part  forever; 
I'll  waken  thee  again — no,  never; 
Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 
And  thou  shall  calmly  slumber  here. 
Unhallowed  was  the  eye  that  gazed 
Upon  the  lamp  which  brightly  blazed, 
The  lamp  which  never  can  expire, 
The  undying,  wild,  poetic  fire. 
And  Oh!  unhallowed  was  the  tongue 
Which  boldly  and  uncouthly  sung; 
I  bless'd  the  hour  when  o'er  my  soul, 
Thy  magic  numbers  gently  stole, 
And  o'er  it  threw  those  heavenly  strains, 
Which  since  have  bound  my  heart  in  chains; 
Those  wild,  those  witching  numbers  still 
Will  o'er  my  widow'd  bosom  steal. 
I  blest  that  hour,  but  Oh!  my  heart, 
Thou  and  thy  Lyre  must  part;  yes,  part; 
And  this  shall  be  my  last  farewell, 
This  my  sad  bosom's  latest  knell. 
And  here,  my  harp,  we  part  for  ever; 
I'll  waken  thee  again,  Oh!  never; 
Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 
And  thou  shalt  calmly  slumber  here. 


SPECIMENS 


OF 


PROSE    COMPOSITION. 


COLUMBUS. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

WHAT  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  Christopher 
Columbus,  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  knelt  and  clasp 
ed  his  hands,  in  gratitude,  upon  the  shores  of  his 
newly-discovered  world?  Year  after  year  has  rolled 
away;  war,  famine,  and  fire  have  alternately  swept 
the  face  of  that  country;  the  hand  of  tyranny  hath 
oppressed  it;  the  footstep  of  the  slave  hath  wearily 
trodden  it;  the  blood  of  the  slaughtered  hath  dyed  it; 
the  tears  of  the  wretched  have  bedewed  it;  still,  even 
at  this  remote  period,  every  feeling  bosom  will  delight 
to  dwell  upon  this  brilliant  era  in  the  life  of  the  per 
severing  adventurer.  At  that  moment,  his  name  was 
stamped  upon  the  records  of  history  for  ever;  at  that 
moment,  doubt,  fear,  and  anxiety  fled,  for  his  foot  had 
pressed  upon  the  threshold  of  the  promised  land. 

The  bosom  of  Columbus  hath  long  since  ceased  to 
beat — its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  projects,  sleep,  with  him, 
the  long  and  dreamless  slumber  of  the  grave;  but 
while  there  remains  one  generous  pulsation  in  the 
human  breast,  his  name  and  his  memory  will  be  held 
sacred. 

When  the  cold  dews  of  uncertainty  stood  upon  his 
brow;  when  he  beheld  nothing  but  the  wide  heavens 


296  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

above,  the  boundless  waters  beneath  and  around  him; 
himself  and  his  companions  in  that  little  bark,  the  only 
beings  upon  the  endless  world  of  sky  and  ocean; 
when  he  looked  back  and  thought  upon  his  native 
land:  when  he  looked  forward,  and  in  vain  traversed 
the  liquid  desert,  for  some  spot  upon  which  to  fix  the 
aching  eye  of  anxiety;  oh!  say,  amidst  all  these  dan 
gers,  these  uncertainties,  whence  came  that  high,  un 
bending  hope,  which  still  soared  onward  to  the  world 
before  him?  whence  that  undying  patience,  that  more 
than  mortal  courage,  which  forbade  his  cheek  to  blanch 
amid  the  storm,  or  his  heart  to  recoil  in  the  dark  and 
silent  hour  of  midnight?  It  was  from  God — it  was 
of  God — His  Spirit  overshadowed  the  adventurer!  By 
day,  an  unseen  cloud  directed  him — by  night,  a  bril 
liant,  but  invisible  column  moved  before  him, gleaming 
athwart  the  boundless  waste  of  waters.  The  winds 
watched  over  him,  and  the  waves  upheld  him,  for  God 
was  with  him — the  whirlwind  passed  over  his  little 
bark,  and  left  it  still  riding  onward,  in  safety,  towards 
its  unknown  harbour — for  the  eye  of  Him  who  pierces 
the  deep  was  fixed  upon  it. 

Columbus  had  hoped,  feared,  and  had  been  disap 
pointed;  he  had  suffered  long  and  patiently — he  had 
strained  every  faculty,  every  nerve;  he  had  pledged 
his  very  happiness  upon  the  discovery  of  an  unknown 
land;  and  what  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  his 
soul,  when,  at  length  bending  over  that  very  land,  his 
grateful  bosom  offered  its  tribute  of  praise  and  thanks 
giving  to  the  Being  who  had  guarded  and  guided  him 
through  death  and  danger?  He  beheld  the  bitter  smile 


COLUMBUS.  297 

of  scorn  and  derision  fade  before  the  reality  of  that 
vision,  which  had  been  ridiculed  and  mocked  at;  he 
thought  upon  the  thousand  obstacles  which  he  had  sur 
mounted;  he  thought  upon  those  who  had  regarded 
him  as  a  self-devoted  enthusiast,  a  visionary  madman, 
and  his  full  heart  throbbed  in  gratitude  to  Him  whose 
Spirit  had  inspired  him,  whose  voice  had  sent  him 
forth,  and  whose  arm  had  protected  him. 


298  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 
(Written  in  her  eleventh  year.) 

EARLY  one  morning  Alphonso  set  out  in  search  of 
Learning.  He  travelled  over  barren  heaths  and  over 
rocks,  and  was  often  obliged  to  ford  rivers,  which 
seemed  almost  impassable;  at  last,  completely  ex 
hausted,  and  at  a  loss  what  road  to  take,  he  sat  down, 
desponding  by  the  side  of  a  rapid  river.  Soon  a  pas 
senger  approached  with  whom  Alphonso  entered  into 
conversation,  and  at  length  asked  him  where  he  was 
going.  I  am,  replied  the  stranger,  seeking  Fame,  and 
already  by  her  trump  has  my  name  been  sounded  in 
her  courts.  She  has  promised  to  immortalize  my 
name;  follow  me,  and  you  shall  richly  reap  the  reward 
of  your  labour.  /  also,  answered  Alphonso,  have  a 
road  to  pursue,  which  leads  to  Fame,  but  it  is  through 
Learning  that  I  must  reach  her  courts,  and  then  shall 
I  enjoy  the  fruits  of  my  toil,  in  proportion  to  the 
hardships  with  which  I  have  acquired  it.  Can  you 
tell  me  where  she  can  be  found? 

You  see,  replied  the  stranger,  yonder  hills  which 
rise  one  upon  the  other,  as  far  as  the  eye  extends;  far, 
far  beyond  them,  whose  every  precipice  you  have  to 
climb,  Learning  resides.  Her  temple  is  pleasant,  but 


ALPHONSO.  299 

few  there  are  who  gain  it;  many,  indeed,  have  gone 
beyond  these  foremost  hills,  but  stumbling,  they  have 
been  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks,  but  still  they  have 
had  the  reputation  of  having  reached  her  temple,  and 
their  names  are  recorded  in  the  roll  of  Fame.  Thus 
saying,  the  stranger  proceeded  on  his  journey,  and 
left  Alphonso  in  doubt  whether  to  pursue  the  danger 
ous  road  of  which  the  stranger  had  warned  him,  or 
to  follow  him  to  more  easily  acquired  fame. 

At  last  Wisdom  came  to  his  assistance,  and  he  re 
solved  not  to  give  up  his  search  after  Learning.  He 
proceeded  therefore,  and  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  when  he  was  met  by  another  person,  who  inquired 
whither  he  was  going?  I  am  in  pursuit  of  Learning, 
replied  Alphonso.  What!  do  you  intend  climbing 
yonder  rugged  and  tiresome  hill?  I  do,  answered 
Alphonso. 

Indolence  is  my  companion,  said  the  stranger;  I 
found  her  in  yonder  valley.  I  toiled  not  for  her,  and 
without  toil,  I  enjoy  ease;  on  the  other  hand,  Learning 
cannot  be  obtained  without  labour;  go  with  me,  and 
you  shall  enjoy  life.  Alphonso,  partly  fatigued  with 
his  long  walk,  and  partly  discouraged  by  the  rugged 
appearance  of  the  hill,  consented.  After  walking  on 
sometime  in  a  beautiful  valley,  Alphonso  began  to  dis 
cover  that  his  new  companion  was  flat  and  insipid, 
that  he  had  exhausted  all  his  little  fund  of  knowledge, 
in  the  beginning  of  their  journey,  and  that  he  now 
scarcely  said  anything.  Thus  continuing  dissatisfied, 
not  with  the  path,  but  with  the  companion  he  had, 
they  entered  a  beautiful  meadow,  in  which  there  was 


300  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

an  arbour,  called  the  arbour  of  Indolence,  and  there 
they  lay  down  to  rest;  but  before  Alphonso  slept,  a 
warning  voice  sounded  in  his  ear, "  awake,  for  destruc 
tion  is  at  hand."  He  heeded  it  not,  and  with  his 
senses  slept  his  conscience. 

When  they  arose  to  pursue  their  journey,  a  tempest 
gathered;  thick  clouds  were  in  the  heavens,  all  was 
black.  Night's  sable  mantle  was  thrown  over  the 
horizon,  and  only  now  and  then  a  flash  of  lightning, 
attended  with  a  dreadful  thunderbolt,  showed  them 
both  the  dead  waters  of  oblivion;  near  them  was  the 
path  which  slides  the  unhappy  deluded  mortal  down 
to  its  deep  and  noisome  bed. 

Alphonso's  conductor,  who  had  before  appeared  cer 
tain  of  being  on  safe  ground,  trembled  and  turned  pale 
when  he  found  himself  in  the  fatal  path.  Alphonso 
was  on  the  brink!  He  receded;  his  flesh  grew  cold, 
his  eyeballs  glared,  and  his  hair  stood  on  end.  Pre 
sently  he  heard  a  low  plashing  of  the  dead  waters  of 
oblivion;  they  closed  with  a  sullen  roar  over  the  un 
happy  sufferer,  and  all  was  silent.  This  is  the  end  of 
the  careless  votary  of  Indolence,  thought  Alphonso, 
as  he  turned  from  the  dead  waters  of  the  lake.  Let 
this  be  a  lesson  to  me! 

He  stood  in  deep  perplexity  some  time,  not  daring 
to  turn  back,  and  he  knew  it  would  be  certain  death 
to  proceed;  but  suddenly  the  clouds  dispersed,  the  air 
was  calm,  and  all  was  silent;  he  blessed  the  returning 
light,  and  with  new  vigour,  passed  on  his  way  in  search 
of  Learning.  He  was  overjoyed,  when  he  found  him 
self  out  of  the  fatal  vale  of  Indolence. 


ALPHONSO.  301 

Again  he  viewed  those  hills  which  so  discouraged 
him  when  they  met  his  eye  before,  but  now  they  ap 
peared  to  him  with  a  far  different  aspect,  as  he  traced 
over  them  the  path  to  Learning's  happy  temple. 

He  began  his  journey  anew,  and  as  he  proceeded, 
the  ascent  was  easier.  When  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  hill,  a  few  faint  rays  of  the  bright  sun  of  Learning 
warmed  his  heart,  and  though  faint,  it  was  sufficient 
to  kindle  the  slumbering  fire  of  hope  in  his  bosom. 
After  he  had  reached  the  valley  below,  he  saw  a  person 
crossing  on  the  opposite  side,  with  a  light  step,  and  an 
open  ingenuous  countenance. 

Alphonso  stopped  him,  and  inquired,  why  he  did 
not  ascend  the  hill  before  him?  Because,  said  the 
stranger,  "  I  seek  Truth,  and  she  dwells  in  the  simple 
vale  of  Innocence;  at  her  court  there  is  no  pomp,  but 
there  is  peace;  she  discloses  her  name  to  all;  some  re 
vile  her,  others  say  she  is  of  no  use  to  the  world,  that 
they  are  always  as  victorious  without  her  assistance 
as  with  it.  Her  followers  scarce  ever  suffer  from  the 
imputations  of  the  vile,  when  they  hold  fast  upon  her 
garments.  I  can  possess  Truth  and  Innocence  without 
Learning."  Here  the  travellers  parted — Alphonso  to 
ascend  the  hill,  the  stranger  to  the  vale  of  Innocence. 

Without  a  companion  in  his  solitary  journey;  with 
no  one  to  assist  him  on  his  way;  no  one  to  raise  him 
if  he  stumbled,  Alphonso  pursued  his  toilsome  course. 
At  length,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  he 
perceived  standing  on  its  summit  a  figure  stretching 
out  one  hand  to  assist  him,  the  other  rested  on  an  an 
chor,  and  a  bright  beam  played  around  her  brow. 


302  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Alphonso  hastened  to  ascend  the  hill,  and  when  he 
approached,  he  clasped  the  outstretched  hand  of  Hope, 
for  that  was  the  name  of  the  fair  form,  and  imprinted 
it  with  kisses.  Hope  smiled  affectionately  upon  him, 
and  with  these  encouraging  words  addressed  him: 
"Alphonso!  I  come  to  conduct  you  to  the  temple  of 
Learning;  you  have  overcome  alone  the  greatest  obsta 
cles,  you  shall  now  have  a  conductor. 

As  they  came  to  frightful  precipices,  where  un 
fortunate  mortals  had  been  dashed  headlong,  for  daring 
to  approach  too  near  its  edge,  Hope  would  catch  his 
hand  and  conduct  him  to  safer  ground.  At  last,  through 
many  difficulties,  hazards,  and  reproaches,  Alphonso 
came  in  sight  of  the  temple  of  Learning.  The  suu 
was  just  sinking,  and  it  illumined  the  edges  of  the 
fleecy  floating  clouds  with  a  golden  hue.  Its  last 
beam  played  upon  the  glittering  spire  of  the  temple; 
Alphonso  could  scarce  believe  his  eyes.  They  reached 
the  threshold.  After  so  many  toils,  so  many  dangers, 
he  had  now  acquired  the  object  of  his  hopes. 

They  stood  a  moment,  whe»  the  door  was  opened 
by  a  grave  looking  old  man,  who  heartily  welcomed 
them  to  the  temple.  As  they  entered  all  was  light; 
it  burst  upon  his  sight  like  some  enchanted  scene, 
where  none  but  setherial  beings  dwell.  Irresistibly 
he  cast  his  eyes  up  to  the  nave  of  the  spacious  hall, 
and  beheld  Learning  seated  upon  a  throne  of  gold. 
A  bright  sun  emitted  its  cheering  rays  above  his  head. 
In  one  hand  she  held  a  globe,  in  the  other  a  pen. 
Books  were  piled  up  in  great  order  here,  and  in  ano 
ther  place  they  were  strewn  in  wild  profusion.  Ten 


ALPHONSO.  303 

of  her  favourite  disciples  were  ranged  on  either  hand, 
the  swift  winged  Genius  with  his  beloved  companion 
Fancy  were  seated  at  her  right  hand,  and  often  did 
Genius  cast  an  approving  smile  at  the  mistress  of  his 
heart  and  actions;  she  who  had  tamed  the  wild  spirit 
of  his  temper,  and  taught  it  to  follow  in  gentler,  softer, 
and  sweeter  murmurs. 

Hope  now  conducted  Alphonso  to  the  throne  of 
Learning.  She  smiled  as  he  humbly  kneeled  at  her 
footstool,  and  taking  a  laurel  from  the  hand  of  the  de 
lighted  and  willing  Genius,  she  crowned  the  brow  of 
the  elated  Alphonso.  Fancy  for  a  moment  deserted 
the  side  of  Genius  and  hovered  over  his  laurel-crowned 
brow;  then  clapping  her  wings  in  delight  she  again 
resumed  her  former  station.  Learning  stretched  forth 
her  hand  to  him;  arise,  said  she,  you  are  destined  by 
fate  to  fill  this  long  vacant  seat.  Alphonso  kissed  the 
outstretched  hand,  and  gratefully  took  his  seat  at  the 
side  of  Learning. 


304  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


SENSIBILITY. 

IN  this  delicate  emotion  of  the  human  mind  there  is 
a  mixture  of  anger  and  delight;  it  may  be  indulged 
moderately,  with  pleasure  to  its  possessor,  but  uncon 
trolled,  it  brings  in  its  train  a  succession  of  ideal  mise 
ries,  and  sensations  of  acute  pain  or  exquisite  delight. 

It  often  causes  the  heart  to  shrink  with  sensitive 
honour  from  difficulties  in  the  path  of  life  slightly  no 
ticed,  or  scarcely  perceptible  to  the  mind  well  governed 
by  reason,  or  fortified  by  principle.  Lively  sensibi 
lity  may  be  considered  as  the  key-stone  of  the  heart;  it 
often  unguardedly  unlocks  the  treasures  confided  to  its 
care,  and  pouring  forth  the  full  tide  of  feeling,  the 
warmest  impulses  of  the  soul  are  wasted  upon  trifles 
or  squandered  on  objects  insignificant  to  the  eye  of 
reason,  and  frequently  exposes  the  feeling  heart  to  con 
tempt  and  ridicule. 

Deep  and  delicate  sensibility,  that  feeling  of  the  soul 
which  shrinks  from  observation  and  pours  itself  forth 
in  secret  calm  retirement,  must  certainly  by  its  dignity 
and  sacred  character  cause  feelings  of  reverence  for 
its  possessor.  Jesus  wept  over  the  grave  of  his  de 
parted  friend,  his  sensibility  was  aroused,  and  he  shed 
tears  of  sorrow  over  the  dark  wreck  of  a  once  noble 
fabric  in  the  mouldering  remnants  of  mortality  before 
him.  His  prophetic  soul  gazed  upon  wide  scenes  of 
future  desolation.  He  felt  for  the  miseries  of  mankind; 


THE  HOLY  WRITINGS.  305 

he  pitied  their  folly  and  wept  over  the  final  destruction 
of  the  human  frame,  undermined  by  sin  and  borne 
down  by  death. 


THE  HOLY  WRITINGS. 

THROUGH  the  whole  of  this  sacred  volume  may  be 
traced  the  finger  of  a  God!  It  is  overshadowed  by 
his  arm,  and  his  spirit  walks  forth  in  the  sublimity  of 
his  commandments.  What  are  the  mad  revilings  of 
the  scoffer?  They  are  like  burning  coals  which  fall 
back  upon  the  head  of  him  who  hurled  them,  leaving 
the  object  of  his  rage  uninjured.  What  are  the  most 
philosophic  works  of  mankind  when  plaped  in  com 
parison  with  it?  They  sink  into  nothing.  What  are 
the  brilliant  shafts  of  human  wit  when  directed  against 
it?  They  are  as  the  gilded  wing  of  the  butterfly,  flut 
tering  feebly  against  the  nervous,  the  resistless  pinion 
of  an  eagle.  What  are  all  the  immense  magazines  of 
learning  beside  it,  but  a  boundless  heap  of  chaff?  Yes; 
the  vast  edifices  of  human  knowledge  reared  by  the 
restless  hand  of  ingenuity,  and  bedecked  with  all  the 
gaudy  trappings  of  eloquence,  crumble  into  dust  and 
fall  prostrate  in  its  presence,  as  did  the  heathen  idol 
before  the  ark  of  the  living  God ! 

Do  we  ask  eloquence?  Where  can  it  be  found  more 

pure  than  from  the  mouth  of  him  whose  voice  of  mercy 

is  a  murmur,  and  whose  anger  speaks  in  wrathful 

thunders?    Do  we  ask  sublimity?    The  eagle  in  its 

20 


306  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

flight  toward  heaven  is  less  sublime  than  the  hallowed 
words  of  its  Maker.  Do  we  ask  simplicity?  What  is 
more  touchingly  so,  then  the  language  of  the  sacred 
volume?  Do  we  ask  sweetness  or  tenderness?  The 
breath  of  summer  is  less  sweet,  than  the  Almighty's 
offered  mercies.  The  fabled  bird  which  sheds  her  blood 
for  the  nourishment  of  her  innocent  offspring,  is  cruel 
in  comparison  with  him,  who  bled,  who  died,  for  those 
who  cursed  and  tortured  him.  Do  we  ask  grandeur, 
wildness  or  strength?  Look  there!  there  upon  the  law 
of  him  whose  very  self  is  grandeur,  whose  glance  is 
lightning,  and  whose  arm  is  strength. 

The  hand  of  the  impious  and  the  envious  may  hurl 
the  dust  of  derision  upon  this  sacred  volume,  still,  it 
will  shine  on,  brighter  and  brighter,  while  time  shall  be! 


CHARITY.  307 


CHARITY. 

THE  sacred  volume  exhorts  us  to  Charity.  How 
carefully  then  should  we  cherish  this  kindly  feeling, 
this  spark  from  the  fountain  of  life,  that  it  may  beam, 
forth  undimmed,  and  with  its  pure  and  friendly  light, 
cast  a  ray  over  our  many  imperfections,  in  that  day 
when  all  will  stand  in  need  of  mercy  and  forbearance! 

It  is  not  the  bare  distribution  of  alms  to  the  needy 
and  suffering  beggar,  it  is  not  the  pompous  offerings 
of  opulence  to  the  shrinking  child  of  poverty,  which 
constitutes  true  charity; — no;  it  is  to  be  understood  in 
a  far  wider  sense;  it  is  forbearing  to  join  with  the  mul 
titude,  when  trampling  upon  a  fallen  fellow  creature. 
It  is  the  voice  of  charity  which  pleads  for  the  wretched 
and  the  penitent,  which  raises  the  prostrate,  and  whis 
pers  forgiveness  for  the  past,  and  hope  for  the  future. 
It  is  her  hand  which  pours  the  balm  of  consolation 
into  the  lacerated  bosom  of  the  returning  wanderer; 
who  dares  not  look  back  upon  the  past,  and  whose 
heart  shrinks  as  it  meets  the  cold  and  averted  glances 
of  those,  who  in  the  hour  of  its  pride  had  bowed 
before  it. 

We  are  all  liable  to  err.  Let  us  make  the  situation 
of  the  suffering  penitent  our  own.  Where  are  the 
friends  we  had  fondly  fancied  ours?  fled  as  from  the 
breath  of  pestilence,  and  we  are  desolate;  left  with  the 
arrow  of  adversity  rankling  in  our  bosoms,  like  the 


SOS  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

stricken  deer  by  the  selfish  herd,  to  perish  in  solitude 
and  wretchedness. 

There  is  no  heart  so  hardened  and  depraved,  that 
it  will  not,  when  the  soft  voice  of  charity  whispers 
peace  and  forgiveness,  yield  like  wax  beneath  the 
hand  which  stamps  it.  Then  is  the  moment  to  impress 
upon  it  the  sacred  precepts  of  virtue,  and  to  place  the 
bright  rewards  of  penitence  before  it.  "  Let  us  then 
do  as  we  would  that  others  should  do  unto  us;"  have 
mercy  upon  the  fallen  and  stretch  forth  the  hand  of 
charity  to  the  suffering  and  the  penitent. 


IMMORALITY  OF  THE  STAGE.  309 


REMARKS  ON  THE   IMMORALITY  OF  THE 
STAGE. 

WHY  is  it  that  the  ear  of  modesty  must  be  shocked 
by  the  indelicacy  and  immorality  which  obstinately 
clings  to  the  stage,  that  vehicle  of  good  or  evil,  that 
splendid  engine  whose  movements  may  shed  a  halo 
of  brilliancy  around  it,  or  leave  behind  the  blackened 
traces  of  its  desolating  progress? 

Can  the  eye  of  innocence  gaze  even  upon  the  mimic 
characters  of  vice,  or  the  ear  of  delicacy  become 
familiarized  to  the  rude  and  boisterous,  or  the  more 
dangerously  subtle  insinuations  of  depravity,  without 
quitting  the  fascinating  scene  less  fastidious  in  its  feel 
ings,  less  sensible  to  the  bold  intrusions  of  barefaced 
wickedness?  No: — though  the  change  be  slow  and 
almost  imperceptible,  still  it  will  not  be  the  less  certain, 
the  fatal  poison  will  creep  to  the  very  vitals  of  virtue, 
and  stamp  deep  stains  upon  the  spotless  tablet  of  inno 
cence. 

Must  then  all  that  is  bright  and  pure  be  shut  out 
from  those  scenes  of  fascination,  and  delight?  Must 
that  very  purity  which  should  be  cherished  and  guard 
ed  as  a  sacred  deposit,  be  converted  into  a  chain 
wherewith  to  shackle  the  amusements  of  its  possessor? 
Would  not  the  frequent  indulgence  of  this  amusement, 
be  holding  forth  a  strong  temptation  to  those  who  are 
but  partially  fortified  in  the  principles  of  rectitude,  to 


310  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

overleap  the  crumbling  ill-formed  barrier,  and  plunge 
at  once,  into  the  boundless  ocean  of  vice  and  immo 
rality? 

Oh  why  will  not  authors,  those  helmsmen  in  the 
mighty  vessel  of  improvement,  dash  the  countless 
stains  from  the  charts  which  they  are  holding  to  our 
eyes,  and  transform  their  blackened  pages  to  pure, 
spotless  records  of  truth  and  virtue?  Then  we  should 
no  longer  mark  the  blush  of  offended  modesty 
mantling  the  cheek  of  sensibility,  or  the  frown  of  dis 
approbation  clouding  the  pure  brow  of  refinement 
and  morality.  The  stage  would  then  become  the 
guardian  and  the  friend,  instead  ®f  the  fell  destroyer 
of  all  that  is  pure  and  virtuous  in  the  human  breast. 


CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  HEAVENS.  31 1 


CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  HEAVENS. 

To  count  the  glittering  millions  of  the  sky,  to  mar 
shal  them  in  bright  array  before  us,  to  mark  the  bril 
liant  traces  of  a  Creator's  presence,  the  foot-prints  of 
the  Deity,  is  a  hallowed  and  sublime  employment  of 
the  soul;  for  being  insensibly  led  onward  from  gazing 
upon  the  portals  of  heaven,  the  wonderful  threshold  of 
God's  wide  pavilion,  it  dares  to  lift  itself  in  pure  and 
unearthly  communion,  with  the  Holy  Spirit  that  in 
habits  there,  and  to  bow  in  adoration  and  praise  before 
the  great  I  AM. 

To  a  feeling  mind,  the  heavens  unroll  a  vast  vol 
ume,  filled  with  subjects  of  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 
Wonder,  at  the  inconceivable  majesty  and  goodness 
of  the  great  Creator  of  so  vast,  so  splendid  a  system; 
love,  for  his  condescension  in  deigning  to  bend  his  at 
tention"  to  so  insignificant  a  creature  as  man,  even  in 
the  meridian  of  his  earthly  glory,  and  praise,  for  his 
unchangeable  benevolence,  infinite  wisdom,  and  per 
fection.  What  hand  but  that  of  a  God  could  have 
formed  the  wide  solar  system  above  us?  what  voice  but 
that  of  Him  who  created  them,  could  bid  the  starry 
millions  move  on  for  thousands  of  ages  in  one  unbro 
ken  and  unceasing  march?  The  lights  of  heaven  are 
bright  and  beautiful,  still  they  are  but  feeble  beams 
from  the  everlasting  fountain  of  splendour,  or  wander 
ing  sparks  of  Heaven's  dazzling  glory.  Well  indeed 


312  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

might  Zoroaster,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  heat,  worship 
the  fires  of  Heaven  as  parts  of  that  ineffable  and  never- 
dying  spirit  which  animates  and  lives  in  all,  through 
all  eternity. 

In  the  dark  ages  of  superstition  and  bigotry,  was  it 
strange  that  he  should  turn  in  disgust  from  the  sacri 
fices  of  blood,  from  horrid  images  the  disgraceful  pro 
ductions  of  weak  bewildered  minds,  to  a  fount  of  pure, 
unchanging,  living  light,  to  the  brilliant  fires  above 
him,  holding  their  unbroken  paths  through  Heaven, 
pointing  to  God's  throne,  and  whispering  to  the  heart 
of  something  still  more  bright,  more  beautiful  and  holy? 


THE    END. 


LEA  &  BLANCHARD, 

PHILADELPHIA, 

Have  Recently  Published 

DE    CLIFFORD, 

OR 

THE    CONSTANT   MAN. 

By  the  Author  of  "  TREMAINE,"  "  DE  VERB,"  &c. 

"De  Clifford  is  a  sterling  work — a  work  not  to  be  perused  and 
dismissed  in  a  breath,  but  to  be  read  and  studied  again  and  again. 
It  is  not  for  the  story,  but  for  the  fine  delineation  of  the  movement 
of  the  human  heart — for  the  striking  descriptions  of  eminent  poli 
tical  and  distinguished  persons,  for  the  great  knowledge  of  life, 
and  men,  and  things,  displayed  in  every  part — for  just  reflections 
on  events  which  belong  to  all  periods — for  vigorous  opinions  on 
celebrated  authors  and  the  tendency  of  their  writing,  and,  above 
all,  for  an  elevated,  manly,  and  moral  tone,  calculated  to  discou 
rage  vice  and  inspire  virtue  in  every  walk  and  relation  of  life. 

"  These  volumes  will  long  continue  to  be  an  ornament  to  the 
polite  literature  of  our  time." — London  Literary  Gazette. 

CECIL, 

OR 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  COXCOMB. 

A  NOVEL. 

He  was  such  a  delight — such  a  coxcomb- 
Such  a  jewel  of  a  man! — Byron's  Journal. 

In  Two  Volumes  12mo. 

"  Cecil,  or  Memoirs  of  a  Coxcomb. — This  book  is  remarkably 
clever,  written  in  a  sparkling  and  easy  style,  which  is  read  as 
easily.  It  is  full  of  pointed  things.  The  writer  has  also  a  vein 
of  humorous  exaggeration,  at  which  we  have  laughed  heartily, 
and  his  picture  of  high  London  Life  could  only  have  been  drawn 
by  a  thorough  proficient  in  its  sordid  jealousies  and  utter  want  of 
heart." — Examiner. 

"  The  author  of  this  brilliant  novel  figures  with  all  the  supre 
macy  of  a  master.  The  work  is  perfectly  fresh  in  style,  and  is 
full  of  graceful  vivacity." — Morning  Herald. 

"  A  novel  of  the  '  Vivian  Grey'  school,  but  with  more  point 
and  vigour.  The  story  is  told  throughout  with  unflagging  spirit, 
and  wears  an  aspect  of  reality  not  often  met  with  in  fiction." — 
Sun. 

"  Many  are  the  vicissitudes  which  befall  Cecil.  His  coxcombry 
and  adventures  are  amusing;  his  humour  is  searching  and  sar 
castic,  and  the  living  spirit  which  animates  his  confessions  hold 
out  to  the  last." — Athentzum. 


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tions  of  the  chief  actors  in  it,  are  such  as  enable  a  writer  pos 
sessed  of  his  peculiar  powers,  to  turn  them  to  the  best  possible 
account.  Deeply  read  in  the  history  of  the  time,  versed  in  anti 
quarian  lore,  and  familiar  with  details  and  localities,  he  adds  to 
these  qualifications  a  quick  susceptibility  of  the  nature  of  effect, 
and  the  power  of  grouping  his  figures  so  as  to  bring  them  at  once 
into  immediate  action, — attributes  which  are  eminently  service 
able  in  a  narrative  like  the  present.  In  his  happiest  efforts  we 
are  often  reminded  of  the  free  and  vigorous  pencil  of  Wouver- 
mans.  The  account  of  the  flight  of  Viviana,  Guy  Fawkes,  and 
Humphrey  Chetham  across  Chat  Moss  is  admirably  told,  and  the 
incantation  scene  with  the  celebrated  Dr.  Dee,  is  narrated  in  a 
tone  perfectly  in  accordance  with  the  superstitious  belief  of  the 
time.  The  examination  of  Guy  Fawkes  before  James  I.  is  an 
extremely  good  scene;  and  the  firmness  and  resolution  of  the  con 
spirator  are  very  strikingly  portrayed;  nor  is  the  dreadful  torture 
to  which  he  was  subsequently  condemned,  less  graphically  de 
scribed.  In  seeking  a  romance  of  stirring  character  and  intense 
interest,  the  reader  will  assuredly  not  be  disappointed." — Morn 
ing  Herald. 


THE  CRITICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 

OF 

SIR  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER, 

Author  of  "Pelham"  "  The  Disowned,"  Sfc. 

CONTENTS. — Sir  Walter  Scott;  Art  in  Fiction;  Death  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott;  Zicci,  a  Tale;  Conversation  with  an  Ambitious 
Student  in  ill  health;  Poems  of  Laman  Blanchard;  Poems  of 
Robert  Montgomery;  Tour  of  a  German  Prince;  Present  State  of 
Poetry;  Notes  of  Lord  Brougham's  Speeches;  Sir  Thomas 
Browne;  The  People's  Charter;  Letters  by  an  English  member 

of  Parliament  to  M.  de ,  of  the  Chambre  des  Deputes,  No.  1, 

on  Public  Opinion;  On  Political  Coalitions;  Upon  the  Spirit  of 
True  Criticism;  Authors  and  their  Works;  Proposals  for  a  Lite 
rary  Union;  Literature  considered  as  a  Profession;  International 
Law  of  Copyright;  The  Modern  Platonist;  The  knowledge  of 
the  World  in  Men  and  Books;  on  English  Notions  of  Morality; 
The  Wilful  Misstatements  of  the  Quarterly  Review;  Letters  to 
the  Editors  of  the  Quarterly  Review;  On  the  Influence  and  Edu 
cation  of  Women;  The  New  Year;  The  Position  and  Prospects 
of  Government;  The  Politician.  In  2  vols.  12mo. 

"  Here  we  have  two  beautiful  volumes — we  mean  just  as  we 
write — two  volumes  into  which  Bulwer  has  infused  just  so  much 
of  himself — his  immortality,  as  will  cover  about  seven  hundred 
pages. 

These  volumes  are  the  miscellaneous  writings  of  that  great 
author — great  in  his  genius,  great  in  his  attainments,  and  but  for 
an  unhappy  obliquity  in  certain  of  his  works  of  fiction,  great  in 
all  his  writings.  But  in  these  essays,  we  have  not  those  objec 
tionable  pictures  which  we  may  censure  in  his  novels.  We  may 
differ  from  the  distinguished  author  in  some  of  his  opinions  of 
men,  and  things,  and  morals,  but  as  a  whole,  his  miscellaneous 
writings  must  command  the  applause  of  the  critic,  while  they 
rivet  the  attention  of  every  class  of  readers. 

It  is  refreshing  to  sit  down  and,  for  an  hour,  hold  converse 
with  such  a  spirit  as  Bulwer's;  to  sit  in  the  light  of  his  genius,  to 
feel  its  warmth,  and  to  own  a  sympathy  with  his  views.  We  for 
get  what  we  have  to  condemn  in  his  novels,  in  the  amount  which 
we  have  to  approve  in  his  essays."—  U.  S.  Gazette. 

LIVES  OF  EMINENT  LITERARY  AND  SCIENTIFIC  MEN  OF  ITALY, 
By  MRS.  SHELLEY,  SIR  DAVID  BREWSTER,  JAMES  MONTGOMERY,  and 

others,  containing: 
Dante,   Gallileo,   Petrarch,    Tasso,    Boccaccio,   Vittoria  Colonna, 

Lorenzo  de  Medici,  fyc.,  Tassoni,  Ariosto,  Marini,  Machiavelli, 

$c. 

In  Two  Volumes. 

"  These  volumes  contain  biographical  notices,  more  or  less 
complete,  of  twenty-two  of  those  names,  many  of  which  not  only 
constitute  the  glory  of  Italy,  but  have  stamped  the  impress  of  their 
genius  upon  all  succeeding  generations  in  every  civilized  country. 
The  Lives  commence  with  that  of  Dante,  and  end  with  Ugo  Fos- 
colo,  two  persons  who,  in  the  character  of  their  minds  and  tone 


of  their  feelings  and  sentiments,  seem  to  us,  though  living  so 
many  centuries  apart,  to  have  borne  a  remarkable  relation  to  one 
another." — New  York  American. 

THE    QUEEN    OF    FLOWERS, 

OR 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  ROSE; 

With  Coloured  Plates. 
A  beautiful  little  volume,  with  gilt  edges,  suitable  for  presents. 

"  This  neat  little  bijou  comes  very  appropriately  at  the  present 
season,  just  as  the  favorite  and  favored  flower  and  all  its  perfumed 
satellites  on  every  side  are  bursting  into  bloom  and  beauty.  As 
an  occasional  souvenir  or  remembrance,  too,  it  happens  at  the 
proper  time — when  the  published  annuals  have  become  somewhat 
antiquated,  and  ere  those  in  embryo  have  burst  their  chrysalis. 
The  subject  is  treated  in  a  series  of  pleasant  letters  from  a  gentle 
man  to  a  dear  female  friend,  through  which  are  scattered  a  profu 
sion  of  gems  of  poesy  from  the  rich  mines  of  many  ancient  and 
modern  sons  of  song. 

"Although  the  author,  with  attractive  modesty,  remarks  in  the 
language  of  the  lively  and  forcible  Montaigne,  '  I  have  gathered 
a  nosegay  of  flowers  in  which  there  is  nothing  of  my  own  but  the 
string  that  ties  them,'  yet  the  reader  will  discover  many  sweet 
thoughts  and  pretty  sentiments,  springing  like  daisies  and  violets 
by  the  wayside,  charming  the  traveller,  and  rendering  the  pursuit 
pleasant  and  profitable." — Saturday  Courier. 

THE   SENTIMENT    OF    FLOWERS, 

OR          £.      i- 

LANGUAGE  OF  FLORA: 

EMBRACING  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  NEARLY  THREE  HUNDRED  DIFFERENT  FLOW 
ERS,  WITH  THEIR  POWERS  IN  LANGUAGE. 

"In  Eastern  lands  they  talk  in  flowers, 

And  they  tell  in  a  garden  their  loves  and  cares; 
Each  blossom  that  blooms  in  their  garden  bowers 
On  its  leaves  a  mystic  language  bears." 

With  Coloured  Plates;  a  small  volume,  embossed  cloth,  gilt  edges. 
The  work  is  beautifully  got  up,  and  the  flowers  tastefully  and 
properly  coloured.  The  volume  is  a  pleasing  appendage  to  the 
centre  table,  and  is  a  most  timely  gift,  when  the  flowers  are  just 
beginning  to  exhibit  their  beauties,  and  to  present  themselves  as 
interpreters  of  human  feelings.  We  commend  the  little  volume 
as  combining  grave  instruction  with  amusement. —  U.  S.  Gazette. 

A  New  Edition,  with  New  Plates,  of  the 
LANGUAGE    OF    FLOWERS, 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIVE  POETRY: 

To  which  is  now  first  added,  THE  CALENDAR  OF  FLOWERS,  revised 

by  the  Editor  of  "Forget-Me-Not;"  handsomely  done  up  in 

embossed  leather  and  gilt  edges. 


LEA  AND  BLANCHARD, 

PHILADELPHIA, 

ARE  PREPARING  FOR  PUBLICATION  THE 

LETTERS  OF  HORACE  W  ALP  OLE, 


2£arl  of 

WITH     A     PORTRAIT. 

In  four  volumes,  8vo.,  handsomely  bound,  containing  nearly  Three 
Hundred  Letters,  now  first  published  from  the  originals. 

In  former  publications  of  Horace  Walpole's  Letters,  the  effect  of  these 
letters  are  greatly  marred  by  the  suppression  of  names,  or  by  the  ob 
scure  indications  of  them  by  initials  only.  Nearly  half  a  century  has, 
however,  now  elapsed  since  he  lived  ;  and  when  it  is  considered  that  he 
survived  almost  all  of  whom  he  wrote,  it  is  clear  that  the  delicacy  which 
rendered  this  obscurity  necessary  on  the  first  publication  of  his  Letters, 
exists  no  longer.  In  the  present  edition,  therefore,  these  provoking 
blanks  will  be  filled  up;  for  which  purpose  the  proprietor  possesses  ad 
vantages  not  at  the  command  of  any  other.  To  enhance  the  value  of 
the  collection,  a  considerable  number  of  Letters  hitherto  existing  only 
in  MS.  will  be  added,  and  the  whole  will  now,  for  the  first  time,  be 
chronologically  arranged  and  illustrated  by  anecdotical  and  biographical 
Notes,  frem  manuscript  and  other  sources. 

The  most  highly-valued  contributor  to  the  present  complete  collection 
of  the  epistolary  writings  of  the  Earl  of  Orfbrd,  is  his  lordship's  latest 
correspondent,  one  of  the  ladies  to  whom  he  addressed  his  "  Reminis 
cences  of  the  Court  of  George  II."  To  this  lady  the  world  will  be 
indebted,  not  only  for  a  series  of  Letters  which  have  never  seen  the 
light,  but  for  a  variety  of  illustrative  and  interesting  Notes,  which  she 
alone  could  supply.  To  these  will  be  added  a  curious  commentary  on 
the  "Reminiscences,"  supplied  by  the  letters  of  Sarah,  Duchess  of 
Marlborough,  and  now  first  published. 

"  We  quote  from  Mr.  Bentley's  general  edition  of  Walpole's  Letters  ; 
a  collection  into  one  view  and  regular  order  of  that  vast  correspondence, 
which,  besides  its  unrivalled  beauty  and  brilliancy,  has  the  more 
important  merit  of  being  the  liveliest  picture  of  manners,  and  the  best 
epitome  of  political  history  that  not  only  this,  but  any  country  pos 
sesses."  —  Quarterly  Review. 

"  Walpole's  Letters  are  full  of  wit,  pleasantry,  and  information,  and 
written  with  singular  neatness  and  sprightliness.  He  is  equally  sprightly 
and  facetious,  whether  he  describes  a  king's  death  and  funeral,  or  a  quirk 
of  George  Selwyn  ;  and  is  nearly  as  amusing  when  he  recounts  the  fol 
lies  and  the  fashions  of  the  day  as  when  he  solemnizes  into  the  senti 
mental."  —  Edinburgh  Review. 


THE  CRITICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS  OF 

LORD    BROUGHAM. 

In  two  volumes,  royal  12mo. 
1 


THE  CRITICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS  OF 

SIR  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER. 

In  two  volumes  royal  12mo. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 
THOMAS      MOORE. 

A  fine  edition,  in  five  volumes. 


THE    HISTORY    OF    IRELAND. 

BY   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Two  volumes  8vo. 


STATESMEN  OF  THE  COMMONWEALTH. 

BY  JOHN  FORSTER, 

In  two  vols.  8vo, 


THE    PIC-JYIC    PAPERS. 

BY     <  B  O  Z.' 
"WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  BLIND  HEART. 

A  TALE.     BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  KINSMEN.' 


BEAUCHAMPE. 

A  NOVEL.     BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "RICHARD  HURDIS.' 


GREVILLE. 

A  NOVEL.     BY  MRS.  GORE. 


CECIL. 

A  NOVEL.    Two  volumes  12mo. 


UTOPIA,  OR  THE  HAPPY  REPUBLIC. 

BY  SIR  THOMAS  MOORE. 


RELIGIO    MEDICI. 

BY  SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 
With  other  works  of  the  same  series. 


LEA    AND    BLANCHARD 

HAVE  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 

THE  SPEECHES 

Of 

HENRI   LORD   BROUGHAM, 

UPON  QUESTIONS  RELATING  TO 

PUBLIC  RIGHTS,   DUTIES,  AND  INTERESTS; 

WITH  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTIONS, 

AND  A  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION  UPON 

THE  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  ANCIENTS 

PREPARED  BY  HIMSELF.. 

In  two  volumes,  8vo. 


A  NEW  EDITION  OF 

ARNOTT'S  ELEMENTS  OF  PHYSICS; 

OR  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY, 
(Sfeneral  amr  S&tKCcal. 

Written  for  Universal  U«c,  In  Plain  and  Non-Technical 
Language. 

Complete  in  one  volume. 

Revised  and  Corrected  from  the  last  English  Edition, 
WITH  ADDITIONS  BY  ISAAC  HAYS,  M.D. 


THE  FOURTH  EDITION  OF 

DUNGLISON'S  HUMAN   PHYSIOLOGY. 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  ENGRAVINGS. 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ADDITIONS  AND  MODIFICATIONS. 

In  two  volumes  8vo, 


CLIFFORD, 

OR    THE    CONSTANT    OTAW. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "TREMAINE,"  "DE  VERB,"  &c.  &c. 

In  three  volumes  12mo, 


A  NEW  EDITION  OF 

THE    OLD    CURIOSITY    SHOP. 

WITH  TWELVE  ADDITIONAL  ILLUSTRATIONS, 

Engraved  by  Yeager, 

FROM  DESIGNS  BY  SIBSON. 

And  printed  on  cream-coloured  paper  to  match  the  other  works  of  "  Boz.'' 
This  edition  contains  upwards  of  One  Hundred  Illustrations. 


Also,  New  Editions  of  the  following  works  by  (Boz)  Charles 
Dickens,  Esq.,  with  Illustrations  by  Cruikshank,  Phiz,  <$-c. 

POSTHUMOUS  PAPERS 

OF 

Efie 


OLIVER    TWIST; 

OR, 

THE    PARISH    BOY'S    PROGRESS. 

With  a  new  Preface. 


THE  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES 

OP 

NICHOLAS    NICKLEBY. 


SKETCHES 


All  the  above  works  are  printed  on  fine  paper,  and  handsomely  bound 
in  embossed  cloth,  to  match. 

The  additional  illustrations  to  the  "  Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  engraved  by 
Yeager,  from  designs  by  Sibson,  may  be  had  separate,  neatly  done  up  in 
a  printed  cover. 


OF  THE  LATE 


BY    WASHINGTON    IRVING, 

SECOND  EDITION. 
In  one  volume,  handsomely  bound  in  extra  embossed  cloth. 

"  And  even  now,  when  our  emotions  are  calmed,  we  feel  little  disposi 
tion  to  add  any  thing  further  than  to  recommend  every  one  to  read  it 
It  is  a  simple  tale,  simply  and  beautifully  told,  composed  altogether  of 
the  '  lights  and  shadows,'  the  little  incidents  which  made  up  the  young 
spirit's  life,  fondly  cherished  in  the  memory,  and  feelingly  narrated  by  a 
bereaved  mother  to  the  biographer. — '  Of  all  precious  children,  she  is 
the  most  remarkable.' " — New  York  Review. 


THE  DEERSLAYER; 

OR    THE    FIRST    WAR    PATH. 

A  Tale  of  tbe  Eixrly  Days  of  "  Natty  Bnmpo"  and 
M  Cliingacligook." 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "THE  PATHFINDER,"  "PIONEERS, 

&c.  &c. 

In  two  volumes  12mo. 


A  FINE  EDITION  OF 

THE   LEATHERSTOCKING  NOVELS. 

EMBRACING 

THE  DEERSI-AYER,  THE  PIONEERS, 

THE  PATHFINDER,  THE  PRAIRIE, 

AND  THE  LAST  OF  THE  MOHICANS. 

In  five  volumes  12mo.,  handsomely  bound  in  extra  embossed  cloth. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

BISHOP      HEBER 

COMPLETE. 

A  handsome  royal  12mo.  volume,  bound  in  extra  embossed  cloth. 
1* 


LIVES  OF 

THE  MOST  EMINENT  FRENCH  WRITERS. 

BY  MRS.  SHELLEY,  AND  OTHERS. 

Containing  Racine,  Fenelon,  Rousseau,  Moliere,  Corneile,  &c.  &c. 

In  two  volumes. 


SKETCHES  OF  CONSPICUOUS 
LIVING    CHARACTERS  OF   FRANCE. 

Containing  Thiers,  Chauteaubriand,  Laffitte,  Guizot,  La  Martine,  George 
Sand,  (Madame  Dndevant,)  Odillon  Barrot,  The  Duke  de  Broglie, 
Soult,  Berryer,  De  La  Mennais,  Victor  Hugo,  Dupin,  Beranger,  Arago. 

TRANSLATED  BY  R.  M.  WALSH. 

WITH  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THIERS. 

In  one  volume. 


LIVES  OF  EMINENT 

LITERARY  AND  SCIENTIFIC  MEN  OF  ITALY. 

BY  MRS.  SHELLEY, 
SIR  DAVID  BREWSTER,  JAMES  MONTGOMERY,  &  OTHERS. 

Containing  Dante,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  Lorenzo  de  Medici, 
Galileo,  Tasso,  &c.  &c.  &c. 

In  two  volumes. 


RAMBLES   IN   EUROPE   IN    1839. 

Embracing  Sketches  of  prominent  Surgeons,  Physicians, 
Literary  Personages*  <Scc. 

Among  which  are  Sir  Astley  Cooper,  Sir  Charles  Bell,  Mr.  Liston, 
Velpeau,  Cloquet,  Baron  Larrey,  Drs.  Forbes,  Abercrombie,  Arnott, 
Graves,  Buckland,  Miss  Edgeworth,  &c.  Together  with  an  account 
of  the  principal  Hospitals,  Medical  Schools,  &.c.  in  Paris  and  London. 
Also,  Sketches  of  Abbotsford,  Dryburg  Abbey,  Edinburgh,  &c. 

In  one  volume. 


A  MEMOIR  OP  THE 

I.IFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  MRS.  HEIVEANS. 

BY  HER  SISTER,  MRS.  HUGHES. 
In  one  volume,  12mo. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 
SIR    WALTER    SCOTT, 

COMPLETE. 

A  fine  edition,  printed  on  beautiful  paper  to  match  the  works  of  Mrs. 
Heraans. 

In  6  vols.  royal  12mo. 


Also,  to  match  Hemans  and  Scott, 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE 
LIFE  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

BY  J.  G.  LOCKHART,  ESQ. 

In  7  vols.  royal  12mo. 


THE 

LIFE  AND  LITERARY  REMAINS  OF  L.  E,  L. 

(MISS  LANDOW.). 

BY  LAMAN  BLANCHARD. 

In  2  handsome  12mo  volumes. 

"We  welcome  these  volumes  with  heartfelt  satisfaction,  and  we  doubt 
not  they  will  meet  a  most  extensive  sale.  The  memoir  is  exceedingly 
interesting,  and  is  written  in  the  author's  happiest  manner.  Among 
the  many  admirers  of  the  poetical  works  of  L.  E.  L.,  few  will  be  satisfied 
until  they  have  attentively  perused  these  volumes." 


KEBLE'S  CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

THOUGHTS   IN    VERSE, 

FOR    SUNDAYS    AND    HOLY    DAYS   THROUGHOUT   THE    YEAR. 
BY  THE  REV.  JOHN  KEBLE, 

PROFESSOR  OF  POETRY  IJJ  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD. 

"  In  quietness  and  confidence  shall  be  your  strength." — ISAIAH  xxx.  15. 

A  new  edition,  with  a  farther  revision ;  and  an  Introduction  by  the 
Rev.  George  W.  Doane,  Bishop  of  New  Jersey.  In  one  neat  volume. 

"  These  verses  are  singularly  beautiful  in  conception  and  composi 
tion  and  breathe  the  purest  poetic  taste,  and  the  most  sincere  and  fer 
vent  spirit  of  piety." — Gazette. 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  BOOK. 

A  MANUAL   OF    RELIGIOUS,    MORAL,    AND    DOMESTIC    DUTIES. 

A  small  volume,  bound  in  extra,  with  Plates  engraved  on  Steel. 


THE  YOUNG  HUSBAND'S  BOOK. 

A    MANUAL    OF    THE    DUTIES,    MORAL,    RELIGIOUS,    AND    DOMESTIC, 
IMPOSED  BY  THE  RELATIONS  OF  MARRIED  LIFE. 

A  small  volume,  bound  in  extra,  with  Plates  engraved  on  Steel. 


LIVES  OF 
THE    QUEENS    OF    ENGLAND, 

FROM  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST. 

WITH  ANECDOTES  OF  THEIR  COURTS. 

NOW  FIRST  PUBLISHED  FROM 

OFFICIAL  HECORDS,  AND  OTHER  AUTHENTIC  DOCUMENTS, 
PRIVATE  AS  WELL  AS  PUBLIC. 

FROM  THE  SECOND  LONDON  EDITION,  WITH  ADDITIONS  AND 
,     CORRECTIONS. 

BY  AGNES  STRICKLAND. 

fc&ftfr  portraits. 
Beautifully  done  up  in  extra  embossed  cloth. 


LORD  BROUGHAM'S 
HISTORICAL  SKETCHES  OF  STATESMEN 

WHO  FLOURISHED  IN  THE  TIMES  OF  GEORGE  IV. 

Containing  Lord  Chatham,  Lord  North,  Mr.  Fox,  Mr.  Sheridan,  George 
III.,  Lord  Eldon,  Lord  Liverpool,  Lord  Nelson,  George  IV.,  Neckar, 
Madame  de  Stael,  Mr.  Pitt,  Mr.  Canning,  Mr.  Wilberforce,  Mr.  Grat- 
tau,  Washington,  Franklin,  Charles  Carroll,  Napoleon,  Prince  Tal 
leyrand,  Lafayette,  Mirabeau,  The  Emperor  Joseph,  The  Empress 
Catherine,  &c.  &c. 

In  two  volumes. 


A  NAVAL  HISTORY 

OF 

THE    UNITED    STATES. 

BY  J.  FENIMORE  COOPER,  ESQ. 

In  two  handsome  volumes,  bound  in  embossed  cloth. 

A  new  edition,  revised  and  corrected,  with  an  index  to  the  volumes. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING'S  WORKS. 


A  NEW  AND  BEAUTIFUL  EDITION  OF 

THE  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

EMBRACING 
THE  SKETCH  BOOK,  KNICKERBOCKER'S  NEW  YORK, 

BRACEBRIDGE  HALL,  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER, 
THE  CONQUEST  OP  GRANADA,  THE  ALHAMBRA. 

In  Two  Royal  Octavo  Volumes,  with  a  Portrait  of  the  Author. 

Each  of  the  Works  embraced  in  this  edition  may  be  had  separately, 
in  two  volumes  12mo. 


THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS; 

OR  SCENES,  INCIDENTS,  AND  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  FAR  WEST, 
With  two  large  Maps.    In  two  volumes. 


ASTORIA; 

OR  ANECDOTES  OF  AN  ENTERPRISE  BEYOND  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS. 

In  two  volumes. 


A  HISTORY  OF  THE  LIFE  AND  VOYAGES  OF 

CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS. 

Revised  and  corrected  by  the  Author.     In  two  volumes,  octavo. 


THE  CRAYON  MISCELLANY. 

CONTAINING  A  TOUR  ON  THE  PRAIRIES,  ABBOTSFORD  AND  NEWSTEAD 
ABBEY,  LEGENDS  OF  THE  CONQUEST  OF  SPAIN. 

In  three  volumes,  12mo. 


THE  BEAUTIES  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

A  small  volume  for  the  pocket,  neatly  done  up  in  extra  cloth. 


A   BEAUTIFUL    PRESENT. 

THE  WORKS  OF  MRS.  HEMANS, 

COMPLETE. 
INCLUDING  A  MEMOIR  BY  HER  SISTER. 

A  new  and  beautiful  edition,  printed  on  fine  paper,  with  a  portrait  of 
the  authoress,  handsomely  bound  in  embossed  cloth,  or  in  calf  and  mo 
rocco,  extra,  with  gilt  edges,  forming  one  of  the  most  beautiful  presents 

of  the  season. 

In  7  vols.  royal  12mo. 

The  complete  Works  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  with  a  Memoir  by  her  sister ; 
and  an  Essay  on  her  Genius,  by  Mrs.  Sigourney.  This  is  the  only 
complete  edition  of  the  works  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  contains  many 
new  poems,  together  with  other  matter  not  embraced  in  any  other 
edition  of  her  Works ;  among  the  new  poems  will  be  found  De  Char- 
tillion,  a  Tragedy ;  a  Tale  of  the  Secret  Tribunals ;  Superstition  and 
Revelation,  a  Tale  of  the  Fourteenth  Century ;  Scenes  and  Passages 
from  Goethe ;  Selections  from  Juvenile  Poems ;  England  and  Spain ; 
and  Wallace's  Invocation  to  Bruce. 

"  This  is  a  truly  elegant  edition  of  the  works  of  the  sweetest  poetess 
the  world  has  ever  known.  The  publishers  have  done  justice  to  the 
memory  of  the  writer  of  delicious  poetry,  by  the  manner  in  which  they 
have  preserved  and  embalmed  it.  We  love  to  think  of  Mrs.  Heinans, 
because,  for  years  past,  we  have  read  her  poems  with  delight.  The 
story  of  her  life,  told  by  her  sister,  is  full  of  deep  interest,  as  it  deve- 
lopes  the  springs  of  her  passion  for  the  beautiful ;  and  unfolds  the 
secret  fountains  of  her  feelings,  which  were  always  as  pure  as  they 
were  ardent.  Her  poetry  was  not  assumed  for  a  moment's  exertion 
and  then  laid  aside,  but  it  was  life  itself.  The  world  with  its '  beauty 
and  its  glory,  merely  contributed  to  her  imagination;  and  the  human 
heart  was  her  own,  for  she  felt  its  highest  and  holiest  desires.  It  was 
proper  that  Mrs.  Sigourney  should  write  an  '  Essay  on  the  Genius'  of 
Mrs.  Hemans.  They  were  kindred  spirits.  The  former  has  been 
called  the  Hemans  of  America — the  latter  might  with  equal  justice  be 
called  the  Sigourney  of  England,  for  though  she  has  not  published  so 
much  poetry  as  Mrs.  Hemans,  it  has  been  of  a  similar  character,  pure, 
and  elevating,  and  affecting.  The  Essay  is  written  with  much  feeling, 
and  proves  the  sisterhood  of  kindred  spirits. 

"  Of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Hemans  it  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  speak. 
They  have  been  too  long  known,  too  much  admired,  and  too  widely 
inculcated  to  need  our  commendation ;  but  we  must  express  gratitude 
to  the  publishers  for  the  elegant  and  complete  manner  in  which  this 
edition  is  issued,  and  express  the  hope  that  it  may  be  the  fireside  com 
panion  of  all  who  love  nature  and  a  pure  unaffected  expression  of  the 
kindest  affection  of  a  heart  imbued  with  the  pure  love  which  springs 
from  true  religion." — Boston  Times. 


CONTAINING 

I.  The  Adaptation  of  External  Nature  to  the  Moral  and  Intellectual 
Constitution  of  Man.     By  the  Rev.  THOMAS  CHALMERS,  D.  D., 
Professor  of  Divinity  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 

II.  The  Adaptation  of  External  Nature  to  the  Physical  Condition 
of  Man,  principally  with  reference  to  the  supply  of  his  wants, 
and  the  exercise  of  his  intellectual  faculties.     By  JOHN  KIDD, 
M.  D.,  F.  R.  S.,  Regius  Professor  of  Medicine  in  the  University 
of  Oxford. 

III.  Astronomy  and  General  Physics,  considered  with  reference  to 
Natural  Theology.    By  the  Rev.  WM.  WHEWELL,  M.  A.,  F.  R.  S., 
Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

IV.  The  Hand,  its  mechanism  and  vital  endowments  as  evincing 
design.     With   numerous  wood-cuts.     By  SIR  CHARLES  BELL, 
K.H.;  F.R.S. 

V.  Chemistry,  Meteorology,  and  the  Function  of  Digestion,  con 
sidered  with  reference  to  Natural  Theology.     By  WM.  PROUT, 
M.  D.,  F.  R.  S. 

VI.  The  History,  Habits,  and  Instincts  of  Animals.     By  the  Rev. 
WM.  KIRBY,  M.A.,  F.  R.  S.    Illustrated  by  numerous  engravings 
on  copper. 

VII.  Animal  and  Vegetable  Physiology,  considered -with  reference 
to  Natural  Theology.     By  PETER  MARK  ROGET,  M.  D.     Illus 
trated  with  nearly  five  hundred  wood-cuts. 

VIII.  Geology  and  Mineralogy,  considered  with  reference  to  Natu 
ral  Theology.     By  the  Rev.  WM.  BUCKLAND,  D.  D.,  Canon  of 
Christ  Church,  and  Reader  in  Geology  and  Mineralogy  in  the 
University  of  Oxford.     With  nearly  one  hundred  copperplates 
and  large  coloured  Maps.    A  new  edition  from  the  late  London 
edition,  with  supplementary  notes  and  additional  plates. 

The  whole  series  forms  a  beautiful  set  of  books,  in  seven  volumes, 
octavo,  and  to  be  had  in  handsome  cloth  or  half  bound  with  calf  back 
and  corners. 

The  VI.,  VII.,  and  VIII.  Treatises  can  be  had  separate  from 
the  set  if  desired. 


THE  NINTH  BRIDGEWATER  TREATISE. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

BY  CHARLES  BABBAGE,  ESQ. 

From  the  Second  London  edition.    In  one  volume,  Octavo. 


THE  PEOPLE'S  LIBRARY. 
THE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  AMERICANA. 

A  POPULAR  DICTIONARY  OF  ARTS,  SCIENCES,  LITERA 
TURE,  HISTORY,   AND  POLITICS, 

BROUGHT  DOWN  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIME, 

And  including1  a  copious  Collection  of  Original  Articles  in  Ameri 
can  Biography;  on  the  basis  of  the  seventh  edition  of  the 
German  Conversations-Lexicon.  Edited  by  Francis  Lieber, 
assisted  by  Edward  Wigglesworth  and  T.  G.  Bradford,  Esqs. 

In  thirteen  large  volumes,  octavo. 


THE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  GEOGRAPHY. 

BY  HUGH  MURRAY. 
Revised,  with  Additions,  by  Thomas  G.  Bradford. 

In  three  beautiful  volumes,  with  over  Eleven  Hundred  Cuts.     Pub 
lished  by  Subscription. 

THE  ECCLESIASTICAL  AND  POLITICAL 
HISTORY  OF   THE  POPES   OF  HOME 

During  the  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries. 
BY  THEODORE  RANKE, 

PROFESSOR  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  BERLIN. 

Translated  from  the  German  by  Sarah  Austin.    Two  volumes. 


TEXT-BOOK  OF  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY. 

BY  J.  C.  I.  GEISLER, 

DOCTOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY  AND  THEOLOGY,  ETC.  IN  GOTTINGEN. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  THIRD  GERMAK  EDITION, 

BY   FRANCIS   CUNNINGHAM. 

In-  three  volumes  octavo. 

Dr.  Geisler's  History  is  very  highly  recommended  by  Professors 
Stuart  and  Emerson,  of  Andover;  Hodge,  of  Princeton;  Sears,  of 
Newton ;  and  Ware,  of  Cambridge. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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